It Might Get Loud
by Red Tape Will Drive You Nuts
Summary: In Platsworth, Minnesota, a banshee screams people to their deaths - and tears off their faces to boot. As the boys delve into the history of the people affected, they discover that all is not as it seems. Someone's got a vendetta, and they won't stop until it's complete. Can Sam and Dean break the family curse?
1. Face Off

**Set season three.**

** CW: mild language and (very) mild adult innuendo.**

* * *

"And this is the fourth?"

"Yep."

Sam tried not to make a face as the detective lit a cigarette and blew smoke their way. He was tall, round, and a ginger-streaked mustache covered his top lip and some of the bottom. "Ross here and Edmund McLaughlin were brothers. The other two were city folk, didn't know the brothers."

The body was laid out in the grass like a rag doll, limbs akimbo. Leaves were strewn about the crime scene and more blew past, covering what was left of Ross McLaughlin's face momentarily before moving on. The park was quiet and empty, the low temperature and macabre scene having driven away the few visitors that had gathered before the crime scene had been discovered.

Dean walked around the body, checking for sulfur or a hex bag, Sam knew. They'd had more than their fill of witches and demons lately; it seemed like every case they caught involved one or the other. They'd been holding their own as well as they ever had, but this sudden frequency of demons and their servants, especially in light of recent events, unsettled him.

"Funny." Dean stopped moving and caught the eye of the detective. "Looks right as rain, except for the chunks missing from his face. Like the brother, right? Coroner know what killed Eddie?"

"Officially, blunt force trauma to the head."

"And unofficially?"

The detective lowered his voice, though nobody was around to hear. "It's nothing like any blunt force trauma he's ever seen, he told me. Looks like someone took a spiked ball to his face, but the depressions don't match any weapon he's ever heard of."

"Still, there have to be thousands of weapons that could have done this," Sam pointed out. "He can't possibly have checked them all, can he?"

He stroked his mustache and looked uneasy.

"What is it?" Dean walked over and stood beside Sam, and together they looked directly into the detective's eyes. It was one of the most powerful – and painless – interrogation techniques they had, and one of the oldest ones in the book. Double up and stare 'em down until they talk.

"You won't believe it. It's preposterous."

"We can do preposterous."

He hesitated some more, then sighed. "What the hell. There were nails in his face, alright?"

"Nails?" Dean shifted his weight. "What, like from a nail gun?"

"No, not that kind. _Fingernails._"

"Human fingernails? Was there DNA?"

He shook his head, and Sam thought he looked rather green.

"An animal, then?" Dean asked. "A bear, or a wolf maybe…"

He shook his head harder, glancing around again for people who might be listening. "No. These were no wolf nails, boys. We don't know what the hell they were."

"Well, where are they? Can we take a look at them?"

"They're at the crime lab down in Corrina," he said. "Dr. Herbert – he's the coroner – sent them down there. It's why they called me; they think they might have a serial killer or something. After Ross was found, they invited the FBI here to investigate all this. Although," he said, looking them over, "when they said they were sending an elite task force, I assumed it included more than two men."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

"We're great at what we do," Dean said, smiling. He extended his hand, and the Detective took it. "Thanks for your help, Detective. We're gonna get to the bottom of this."

He smiled wanly, letting go of Dean's hand. "I hope so," he said. "I don't know what the hell we're gonna do if you can't." He put on his hat and gloves. "Coroner will be by in a few. I'm gonna go grab a bite." He gestured at his car, which was parked a few yards away.

Sam nodded at him while Dean strolled back over to the body, kneeling again.

"So what are you thinking?" Sam stood above him, rubbing his hands together. It had to be at least five below out, and thought he sun shone brightly, it provided no warmth than Sam could feel. "Gotta be a flesh and blood monster, right?"

"Well done, Sammy." Dean lifted Ross' arm, peering under it. "Five points to Gryffindor."

"Rakshasa? We haven't seen one of those in a while."

"What about the nails? Don't remember them being a part of the deal."

"_Could_ be a vengeful spirit, I guess."

"Tied to what?" Dean stood, spreading his arms. "A garbage truck? We got one guy dead in a swimming pool at the lodge, another one on a freeway thirty miles from here, one ate it in at her house, and this guy in a park. All bludgeoned with a mystery weapon."

"Then there's the matter of where they were killed," Sam added. "Cause it wasn't here."

"Monster's probably got a bachelor pad," Dean said. "Rent's cheap enough around here."

Sam shrugged. "Witch? Demon?"

Dean shook his head. "No sulfur, no hex bag. Definitely a monster."

Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. "I'll get the vics' histories, see how they're connected. You wanna head into the city and take a look at the nails and the other bodies? I know you don't like to split up, but I think we're gonna need to move fast on this one. This is the fourth killing in nine days."

"Yeah, no sense in us both looking at claws we won't recognize. I'll get in touch with Bobby. Must be some kind of encyclopedia of creature parts he can crack open."

"Deal."

Sam said it without thinking, and they stood there in uncomfortable silence, until he opened his mouth to apologize.

"And I think it's best if we steer clear of the five-o after today," Dean cut him off. "FBI might send that 'elite task force' The Lorax over there mentioned."

He considered saying something encouraging, but the moment was gone. He tightened his coat around him as Dean looked pointedly away from him, pretending to once-over the body again.

"Detective's coming back," Sam said, gesturing at the lumbering frame headed toward them. "Better go with him when he heads out of town. Follow his lead. Sometimes the locals stop cooperating if they think the feds are trying to take over a case."

"This ain't my first time riding in the front seat, Sam. I know what I'm doing, thanks."

"I was just trying to be helpful, man."

Dean chuckled darkly. "Save your help for someone who can use it."

Sam pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth. _He's just as terrified as you are, _he reminded himself. _Don't let him get to you._

He smiled at the approaching Detective and turned back to Dean with a sigh.

"Drop me in town before you head into Corrina?"

* * *

The case file rested on Sam's lap, open.

Ross and Edmund McLaughlin had owned a pretty successful chain of hardware stores in the area and had left a sizable inheritance to their families. Both were married with adult children, and Ross had been a grandfather twice over. Neither of them had any explicit enemies, and both had grown up here in Platsworth. Neither had gone to college, and they appeared to get on well with each other, if the business' success was any indication.

_Gotta see if there's any bad blood there, _Sam noted to himself. If they really had been killed by a monster, it wasn't likely to be relevant, but one never knew where these things would lead; both of them had been killed within a week of each other, and considering the manner of their deaths, foul play was as likely as not.

And he knew too well how things could get between brothers, even when they were as close as it was possible to be.

Sam closed the file on the McLaughlins, pocketing a small slip of paper with their home addresses on it. He set the folder on the bench beside him and looked out over the river, pressing his lips together against the cold.

He'd tried to stay in the library where it was warm, but in the end the space had felt too cramped and he wandered out here. The cold was bitter, but it made him feel sharp, focused, determined. Feelings he had had less and less with every passing day.

Dean's deal was falling due. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Dean's forceful resignation, if there was such a thing, in the face of his fate had at first struck Sam as fear and obstinacy, business as usual for his brother. After all, Dean had become quite the cynic since their father had died, and Sam had grown accustomed to and accepted his stormy outlook, mostly because he knew it was bullshit. Dean was the kind of skeptic who doubted loudly and hoped quietly, and Sam could rest assured that no matter how dark his words, he looked for the light at the end of the tunnel like everyone else. And, their unique circumstances aside, some semblance of light had always been there, beckoning them, and Sam's belief that things would work out had been vindicated.

But now, when he most needed a spark of hope, it seemed that his brother's attitude was finally the right one. There was no hope. There was no way out. The day would not be saved. The very cosmos prevented deals like the one Dean had made from being broken. No exceptions.

_There has to be some way, _he thought. _There is no deal that can't be renegotiated, no magic that can't be undone. Our father climbed out of hell, for fuck's sake. If that's possible, why isn't this?_

He wouldn't quit. He would never quit. But his optimism was waning faster than he'd ever thought it could, and here he was, sitting on a park bench in subzero temperatures, nursing the terror that his bother would die and burn for eternity.

For him.

"Looking for something?"

Sam started, looking in the direction of the voice. A girl stood there in a fur-collared coat and lace-up boots, her white blond hair blowing in the frozen wind.

"Nah, I just…" Sam struggled to find the words.

"A Kansas boy," she said, sitting beside him. Sam hurried to move the papers so she'd have more space. "Well, I never."

Sam was surprised.

"You spent some time somewhere else, so the drawl's a little muted, but I can still hear it under there." He eyes sparkled, and in the bright light, they seemed to have no color.

He nodded, impressed. "You're good."

"So what's a handsome Kansas fed like you doing sitting out here in the cold?"

Sam chuckled, his breath visible. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

She touched his forearm and held his gaze, a slow smile creeping onto her face.

"Nothing," she said.

They sat there, eyes glued to one another's, until she turned away, facing the river.

"You here about the brothers?"

"Yeah," he said quickly, grateful she had changed the subject. The last thing he needed was a distraction like her right now. "We're still gathering information. Did you know either of them?"

She snorted. "Who didn't? The McLaughlins are an institution around here. Have been since the turn of the century."

"Which century?"

She laughed. "They do slip by, don't they? The twentieth. They came in from the west in 1905, '07, I forget. The patriarch started a gun shop, was rich almost overnight. People from all over came to buy his guns. They were…really something special."

_Loose lips. _"Sounds like they had a good start."

"Didn't stop there. His son was some kind of war hero, then came home and made it big in the stock market. They ate well during the depression, had another son or two come home with honors from the second World War, owned some factories in the sixties and seventies, did something or other in the eighties, and then Ross and Edmund opened the first store in 1998."

_And well informed. _"You the town historian?"

"Oh no," she said. "Anyone in town could tell you anything I just said. They make sure everyone knows their story."

"They seem like a proud family," he said, hoping to get more out of her. He couldn't work out how she felt about the McLaughlins personally, so he was careful to tread lightly. "Any juicy scandals?"

"It's the strangest thing," she mused, putting her hair behind her ear. "No."

"None? In all this time?"

"Not a single one in a hundred and twenty or so years. They're clean as a whistle."

"Huh."

"Huh, indeed."

Sam laughed again. "You came over here just to tell me that, didn't you?"

"See?" She grinned and stood, rubbing her gloved hands together. "I'm not so much sharper that you after all."

Sam stood with her. "I'm headed back into town; got some work to do."

"Need an escort?"

She stepped ahead of him, and he took the time to notice how well her jeans fit her, how nicely the boots molded to her legs. She looked back over her shoulder at him, beckoning.

_She's a distraction, _he told himself, his feet carrying him toward her. _Don't get involved. Nothing can come of it._

_Except maybe you_, a baser part of him replied.

He sighed, holding out his elbow and grinning down at her. She rested her hand in the crook of it.

"Now," she said, as they walked across the bridge, "what should I call you?"

* * *

**Hope you had a Happy Halloween, everybody, even though it's way too late to say that.**

**Drop me a line and let me know what you think!**


	2. Mary Meri

**For those of you who were wondering when in the season this is set – it's just after "The Magnificent Seven."**

* * *

_At least they've got enough light in here_, he thought, following the detective into the autopsy room. _I've seen worse._

The place was plainly unaccustomed to handling the volume of bodies it now found itself holding. Medical equipment was shoved against the walls to make room for the four narrowly spaced examining tables, the three bodies covered by sheets of varying age. Three of the autopsies had already been completed, the detective had told him on the way over, and though Ross McLaughlin hadn't arrived yet, the medical examiner expected no surprises after the first three.

_Finch, _Dean reminded himself. _Detective Aaron Finch. _Sam's father-son advice had been uncalled for and patronizing, but he was right; locals were touchy about federal authorities, and they would get a lot farther a lot faster if they showed professional respect.

The detective – Finch – pulled back the sheets one by one, squeezing between the tables with obvious effort.

"Well," he said, releasing the breath he'd been holding, "here they are. Not a thing wrong with them, apart from being dead, and all. And their faces…" He shook his head. "Well, you know all about that."

Dean took a closer look at the man nearest him.

"This the brother?"

"Yeah, that's Edmund. He was the second vic. Geoff MacGregor there was the first, and Jennifer Tierney was third, just before Ross."

Dean quit looking at Edmund's face; chuck steak would never be as appetizing again. "The timing might be important, but my partner's working that side of the investigation right now. We should focus on the stiffs."

Finch nodded. "You been partners a long time, huh?"

Dean chuckled. "Our whole lives, seems like."

"Bet you boys see all kinds of stuff in your line of work."

"Pretty out there," he said. "We get called all over the place, and most of the time it's run-of-the-mill horror, blood, guts, et cetera, but we get these days…" Dean paused before continuing. _What the hell. Who's he gonna tell?_ "It's like all hell breaks loose, you know?" He shook his head. "Tests your limits, I'll tell you that much."

Finch smiled sadly. "I had a partner. Ten years, then he died in a bank robbery."

"That's rough." Dean frowned. "No replacement?"

"Corrina's too small, they said. Couldn't justify the cost of hiring another detective."

"Just you then, huh? How long?"

"Just a year." He sighed. "He was younger by a few years. Had a family and all. Doesn't seem fair, you know? If I could have taken his place…"

He trailed off.

"I know the feeling," Dean said quietly.

"This is getting depressing," Finch said after a moment. "C'mon. I'll show you the claws."

* * *

Sam closed the last of the books in the pile and shoved them aside, yawning. He flipped his phone open, surprised to find that it was already after five; he had an interview with Jennifer Tierney's mother, and only living relative, at six.

He smiled, thinking of the woman who he'd spent most of the day with. They'd had brunch at a sandwich shop in the town square, and she'd fed him more juicy details about the residents of Platsworth. Most of it was irrelevant nonsense, but she lit up like a hundred-watt bulb as she shared them with him, and he couldn't help but indulge her, watching her move animatedly as she described the mayor's affair with his stepsister and the septic cleaner's drug trafficking conviction. When she'd started in on the high school principal's copy room rendezvous with a visiting veterinarian from St. Cloud, he'd openly expressed his disbelief.

"There's no way that's true, Merida," he said, taking pleasure in saying her name.

"I'd swear it on a stack of bibles," she said indignantly. "Her name was Candace Vikmar. She taught at the state university out there! My mother was the one who called her; one of our horses was having trouble throwin' a colt, and Dr. Clarence – he's the vet here in Plats – was on vacation!"

He hadn't been able to keep from laughing. "But…how did she meet the principal?"

"Oh, it wasn't the first time they met," she said coyly. She bit her bottom lip and leaned in closer. "There was a high school education conference not too long ago at the university, and Henriksen – that's the principal – went to represent our county."

"And how do _you_ know they met there?"

"He talked about her quite a bit when he got back. My mother's the only one around here who can tend to the animals they keep for the kids in the 4H club, so she and Henriksen are good friends."

Sam shook his head. "And what was a vet doing at an education conference?"

"I don't know, but my mother said she taught Henricksen a thing or two. She's the one who caught 'em! He doesn't know that, of course, so don't go mentioning it if you meet him."

Sam laughed again, relishing the feeling. "Remind me never to tell you anything private."

"Oh, I'm not that bad. I just like a good story, that's all."

"Yeah," he said. "Right."

"This place gets boring, Caleb," she said. His heart sank a little when she used the alias.

He nodded. "Sounds pretty boring."

"Compared to your life? I'm sure this place seems plain as a daisy in a field of roses."

Sam cocked his head. "Not lately. Else we wouldn't be here, would we?"

She grinned. "Touché," she said. "It is terrible, though. I just don't know who could do such a thing. And in Plats? It's just got to be someone from out of town."

"You never know," he said sadly. "It could be anyone. That's why they called us in."

She took a long drink from her mug, then caught sight of the clock in the shop window.

"Mmm!" She set her mug down and frowned at him. "Why didn't you tell me how much time had passed? It's almost one!"

"Is it?"

"Oh," she said, slipping her coat on. "Now I've gone and kept you from your work with all my jabbering."

"It was good to take a break," he said. "I enjoyed myself. Really."

She smiled, zipping her jacket. "Aren't you sweet. Here." She took his phone from the table and stored her number. "I know you won't be in town too long, but you should call me anyway. You know, if you want to…get together." She set it down in front of him and bit her lip again, then pranced out of the store, looking very satisfied with herself. The waiter – an older man – had given her a reproachful look. Sam had sat in the restaurant for a while longer, finishing his coffee, before heading back to the library.

He sighed, re-shelving the books he's pulled. _Hope this isn't about family history, _he grumbled to himself. _I'll be in here for the next week and a half if I have to read in depth about these people. Won't see Merida again unless she creeps into the motel room. _

_But she wasn't wrong about the McLaughlins, _he gave the librarian a two fingered wave as he walked past. _Not modest people._ They had five family histories and eight biographies in the library, and Sam knew he'd find countless interviews they'd given in articles when he came back tomorrow. Every one of the McLaughlin boys had done well for themselves, and from what little was written about them, the girls hadn't done so badly themselves. If they hadn't married someone wealthy, they'd become relatively popular actresses or singers, and one had even become a renowned sheriff upstate in the sixties.

He gasped as he stepped out into the cold. The wind had picked up considerably since the sun had set, and he tightened his scarf around him, covering his mouth. _I hope Dean doesn't have to go back to Corrina tomorrow. This cold is un-fucking-believable._

Erin Tierney lived only four blocks from the library, but it seemed like a mile to Sam. He finally stepped onto her porch at ten till six, ringing the doorbell.

She answered promptly, opening the door as far as the chain allowed and peeking through with one eye. A mess of brown hair was piled haphazardly on her head, and from what Sam could see of her, she looked about fifty.

"Are you the Fed?"

"Yes, ma'am. I just need to ask you a few questions about Jennifer. Shouldn't take long."

She peered at him for a second longer before closing the door and opening it again, this time without the chain. She opened the door as wide as it would go.

"C'mon in," she said. "Before you catch your death."

He stepped inside and she slammed the door immediately behind him, sliding what seemed to be a million locks into place before turning to face him. She gestured awkwardly at a plastic covered chair near the window, and Sam sat in it, careful not to knock over any of the numerous figurines that covered nearly every surface of the room. She sat down across from him and folded her arms.

"Well don't just sit there twiddling your thumbs," she said. "Ask your questions and get gone."

Sam smiled, nodding. "Fair enough." He took out a small notepad. "When was the last time you saw Jennifer?"

"Three days ago." She sipped something from a large, cumbersome looking cup. Her small and slightly stooped frame was draped in a heavy knit sweater that reached her knees, and she was wearing at least a dozen necklaces, mostly crucifixes. "She came by to visit, and bring me another Mary."

"Another Mary?"

She picked up one of statuettes and held it out to him. He took it, looking it over. It was a small statue of the Virgin Mary, made of what looked like pewter. Sam looked around the room and realized that all of the figurines were of the same person.

"So you're a collector."

"Family's been doing it for generations now." She touched three or four of the Marys on the table closest to her. "Some of these are over a hundred years old, you know. They're supposed protect us from evil, watch over us. Course, they didn't work for Jennifer, did they?" Mrs. Tierney rolled her eyes, which were by now full of tears. "I told her to keep a few nearby. But she was a stubborn girl, Jennifer. Didn't want to hear it."

Sam gave her a moment to collect herself. _So much for an open and shut monster case,_ he thought bitterly. _These wouldn't protect anyone from a monster, and there's no way this Mary stuff and Jennifer's death are unrelated. _They were looking for a spirit, or at least something non-corporeal.

_Like demons_. The though crept in against his will.

He didn't know how the claws they'd found at the scene fit into it, but maybe Dean had some new information about that; he'd been in Corrina all day.

"So everything was normal," he said gently. "She seemed fine when she left, wasn't worried or stressed or…different?"

"No." She set her massive cup down and set about fondling her necklaces. "She was her typical self. Bubbly, sweet, a little naïve. She stopped by here after work around six, and headed home about nine. She called me when she got there. Said she was tired; hadn't been getting much sleep, apparently. That was the last time I talked to her."

Sam picked up a picture of Jennifer from one of the end tables, careful not to knock anything over. "She was a beautiful girl."

"Yeah, don't I know it. The girl had to beat the boys off with a stick in high school. Thought I was going to end up like those mothers on those awful television shows. You know, the ones about young ladies with child?" She shook her head. "She made it through, though. She was a simple enough girl, but she had her wits about her on that score, praise god."

Sam laughed. "So she was popular?"

"Oh, I can't even tell you. Girl knew everyone in six counties. She was the chair of about a hundred social clubs, mostly book clubs. And it seems like she's been on fire, as far as her work goes – she was a medical assistant at the hospital over in Corrina, you know – and she got three promotions in the last two months alone. She's been there for a few years now, at the same level, but now she's the floor lead or whatever they call it. Said they told her they'd pay for her nursing school, if she wanted to go, and that she might someday be charge nurse, or even the director, they liked her so much. She's so excited about the whole thing, and…well," Mrs. Tierney said, "she was, anyway."

"I'm so sorry," Sam said.

"Yeah," she mumbled. "Everyone's sorry. I don't want sorrow. I want results. How close are you to finding out who killed my baby?"

_A lot closer now than I was_. "We're working several leads," he said. "My partner's down in Corrina now, examining the b…forensic evidence. We'll keep you abreast of what's happening. I promise you we'll get to the bottom of this."

"You'd just better," she snapped. She picked up her cup again, taking a quick, angry sip. "Was that all you wanted?"

He wouldn't be getting any more out of her, Sam knew. "For now," he said, standing. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Tierney."

"Yes, yes," she said, walking around him to the door. She unlocked it – it took a few minutes – and held it open.

He sighed inwardly when he felt the chill of the air.

* * *

Dean didn't arrive until eight, pulling into the gas station where Sam was waiting and honking.

"What the hell, man," Sam griped as he sat down, slamming the passenger door. "Where have been? You were supposed to be here like an hour ago."

"Quit your whining," Dean said. "I'm here now."

"You get anything good?"

Dean smirked. "If you'd call a DNA match on the acrylics of doom and more clues from the bodies good, then I'm fucking great, because I also have a possible monster ID."

"A DNA match? I thought the detective said they weren't human."

"They didn't _look_ human, that's for sure. But when the M.E. tested them this afternoon, they came back _Homo sapiens_."

"So who's DNA was it?"

"How the hell should I know? They weren't in the database."

"You said you had a DNA match."

"We did. It matches humans."

"Then that's not a match, Dean. And there're two _sapiens_."

"What?"

"It's _Homo sapiens, sapiens._"

Dean stared at him.

"_Anyway_," he said, "the nails were human, at least at the bottom. But these things, they look like fucking talons. There aren't any diseases that that make them look like that, either; The Finch even checked with the CDC in Atlanta."

"The finch? What's that?"

"You know, Aaron Finch, he's the detective. Everyone down at the station calls him "The Finch." Like "The Fonz," I guess. Kelly, the records keeper – the _ass_ on that girl – says his partner's last name was Bluejay. Can you imagine that? Bluejay and Finch, on the case-"

"What else did you learn about the bodies?"

"Jeez, what jumped up your ass?" Sam's less-than-amused expression was enough of an answer that Dean continued, looking pleased with himself. "They gave the vics another once over, and get this – their eardrums were blown to hell and back."

"What?"

"Yep. And when they took one of them over to the hospital for a brain scan – it was the MacGregor guy, I think – it turns out that even the parts of their brains that process sound were damaged beyond repair. M. E. thinks it might actually be what killed them."

"Holy shit," Sam said. "How did they miss that?"

"It's not something you can see without the scan, according to The Finch. There was a waiting list at the hospital – the living get first dibs on the machine – and they hadn't had a chance to get over there."

"So, what kind of monster blows people's eardrums to death?"

"A banshee." Dean reached into the back seat and handed a file to Sam, who opened it. "Bobby said it's the only thing it could be. Once upon a time in Scot-Ireland, these things would scream to alert people about some poor sap's impending death. They're death omens, like black dogs. What the people didn't know was that Banshees were actually killing them – the vics' deaths always looked natural, since they didn't have handy-dandy CAT scans back then."

"So they're flesh and blood monsters?"

"Yes and no," Dean continued. "I guess they're kinda like pagan gods or tolpas – they get their mojo from believers. Bobby's not sure what form they take, but the lore says they're more like spirits than physical monsters."

Sam nodded. "That fits."

"How does that fit? What about the raptor claws?"

"Well, Jennifer Tierney's mother has a house full of protective statues and charms to ward off evil spirits. According to her, they've been in her family for generations. Tierney's an Irish name, Dean."

"But the claws – they don't mesh with this Banshee theory. And the human DNA?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that Jennifer wasn't big on the protective statues, and didn't have any in her house. And she'd been "having trouble sleeping" in the days before her death. How much do you want to bet that banshee screams were keeping her up at night?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What about the other vics? Any of this sound familiar to them?"

"We talk to the MacGregors tomorrow, but I couldn't get anyone to answer me directly about seeing the McLaughlins. They're like celebrities around here – the whole family is loaded, and has been since the turn of the century."

"Which century?"

Sam grinned, thinking of Merida. "The twentieth. Every single one of them was kissed by god or something – seems like they were successful without even trying."

"Looks like the luck of the Irish finally ran out."

"You think that might be why this thing is after them? A lot of the immigrant families here are originally from Sweden, but there are still a few Irish. They might still have legends about banshees, maybe tell them to the kids at night. It's weak, but it could be enough to draw one here. They might be in danger."

"Until we find something else to connect the vics, we have to assume they are-"

Someone behind them honked angrily.

"So much for Minnesota nice," Dean muttered, starting the car. They pulled into the road and headed toward the motel. "So, we thinking a were-panther came by and clawed the vics' faces after they died, or what? Cause banshees don't have human nails shaped like knives."

"Who knows? Maybe after we get done with the families, we can talk to some of the other townspeople. Merida's mother seems pretty in the know about the goings-on around here. Maybe she knows who the friendly neighborhood skinwalker is."

"Merida's mother? Who's Merida?"

_Shit_. He feigned nonchalance. "Nobody, just someone I talked to today."

Dean didn't buy it. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he said, grinning. "You naughty little thing. Nice to see you still got some blood in those veins."

"It's not a big deal."

Dean was quiet for a moment as they turned into the motel parking lot.

"She hot?"

"Drop it."

"She light enough to lift real high?"

"I don't know."

"Limber?"

"Dean."

"Think she can wrap her legs around her neck? I knew this one chick, a yoga instructor from Indiana – Lisa, I think –"

"I'm going inside," Sam said, a dry smile on his face. "After you cool off, maybe you could go get us some real food. All these Hot Pockets are giving me diarrhea."

"Whoa, whoa, TMI, man," Dean said, making a face. "I was gonna get chili tonight."

Sam grinned, getting out.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.**


	3. Some People Have All The Luck

The MacGregors' house was easy to find. It was at the end of a long, private lane lined with cast iron street lamps and groundcover that was probably very colorful in the spring and summer. They passed a small cemetery and an oblong lake, a line of covered boats resting against the shore.

They day was warmer than the previous had been, Sam had noted gratefully when they left the motel. The sun was low in the sky and unobstructed by clouds, and it cast its golden light over the countryside. Though he couldn't actually feel it inside the car, its presence made him dread going back outside a bit less.

Dean shook his head as the road wound around a small hill, and shifted gears.

"Who needs a private cemetery? Is a rich uncle gonna complain about the view from his mausoleum at the annual séance?" He slowed as the curve sharpened. "Are these people so highbrow their rotting corpses notice the thread count in their caskets?"

"It's a legacy thing," Sam muttered, looking over Geoffrey's file again. "Family cemeteries are a mark of wealth. Sophistication. It's mostly about appearances."

"Yeah, well, I hope they've got a plastics guy on retainer. Old Geoff's not exactly casket sharp."

"About that," Sam said as Dean parked the car, "I've been thinking. Let's say for a second that this banshee's the one who went Krueger on the vics. If the scream killed them, why bother tenderizing their faces?"

"I dunno, but we better figure it out soon. This thing doesn't work on a schedule. We keep dicking around, it's gonna drop another body."

"Bobby say anything about how it chooses victims?"

"Lore's spotty," Dean said with a sigh. "Some say they choose people at random, other say it's destiny, some say only the wicked get their cards pulled by this thing. All we know for sure it shows up among believers, and some lucky bastard get his eardrums blown from hell to breakfast."

"There's gotta be some other connection. Something we're missing." Sam turned the pages of the file with frustrated speed. "We know Jennifer Tierney's mom was trying to protect her from evil spirits. Jennifer was having trouble sleeping in the weeks before she was killed. But the McLaughlin brothers are squeaky clean, at least as far as the library knows. And this MacGregor guy was some kind of banker, but I can't find anything shady he was involved in, either. They didn't know each other and they've got nothing in common apart from Irish and Scottish names."

"And the locations of the bodies don't make a lick of sense," Dean added. "The Tierney girl was found in her bed, but she the coroner says there's not a snowball's chance she was killed there. The brothers were found in the park and at a lodge, and MacGregor's body was found on a highway way the hell out of town. Why dump 'em all over?" He raised his eyebrows. "I tell you, Sammy, if I didn't know better, I'd say the killer was some psycho with a bullhorn fetish who hasn't clipped his nails in a while."

"A human," Sam mused. "Is that possible?"

"Wishful thinking. Now way anyone screams loud enough to do that kind of damage. We're definitely dealing with a monster."

"Do we even know how to kill this thing?"

"I almost forgot about that," Dean said with mock cheer. "The only thing that can kill a banshee is the sound of its own voice. We got to lock it in a room with an echo, basically. Bobby says we can trap it with a salt line or an iron chain, since it's a spirit."

Sam snorted. "That'll be good to know for when it falls into our lap, because at this rate, that's the only way we'll ever catch it."

"Chin up, little brother," Dean said, looking ahead and nodding. "Erik Northman here might know something useful."

A young man of about twenty came jogging toward them. He was slight of build and very tall, and the cut of his honey-blond hair gave it a halo-like appearance in the early light. He wore a black V-neck sweater and tight black jeans, a silver chain hanging from his pants.

_And a crucifix, _Sam noticed.

He pressed a few buttons on a keypad and the enormous gates began swinging inward. Sam and Dean climbed out of the car and slammed the doors, approaching the gate. The young man sauntered forward to greet them, extending his hand.

Dean took it.

"I'm Agent Kubrick," he said, "and this is my partner, Agent Stanley. We're here about-"

"My uncle Geoffrey," he completed. He looked them over with a mild sneer on his face. "I'm Ian. My aunt Charmaine's waiting inside for you."

Dean's head snapped back at the look on Ian's face, but he had already turned away and begun walking. They started after him, hurrying to keep up as Ian walked briskly a few yards ahead of them, leading them up a gradual hill to a house.

"Nice digs," Sam said under his breath, surveying the place. The MacGregors had at least two acres of front lawn cut by a stone path to their porch. The stone wasn't the cheap kind, either, Sam noticed; a few of his wealthier friends from Stanford had had kitchen counters topped with this stuff.

"Looks like death isn't all these people have in common. Didn't you say those brothers were wiping their asses with silk napkins, too?"

"Yep."

"Was the Tierney girl well off?"

"No. She'd just gotten some big promotions at work, which probably meant more money, but nothing in this league."

"Hm."

"What?"

Dean shook his head.

They stepped onto the porch. The house was three stories tall and built in a style Sam could only think of as 'castle chic.' There were four square towers on the corners of the house, and the stone façade continued all the way to the roof. He half expected to see torches burning along the top, but it seemed even the architect of _this_ place thought that was too on the nose.

Ian opened the door – which appeared to be purchased from somewhere like _Lowe's _or _Home Depot_, Sam noted with amusement – and closed the door behind them.

"She's in the study," he said in a low voice, gesturing at a room to his right. "She's probably drunk off her ass, so enunciate, huh?"

"Will do," Dean said.

Ian took off up the stairs, banging the old photographs on the wall so that they swung back and forth like pendulums as he disappeared around a corner.

"Sweet kid," Sam said.

"Leader of tomorrow."

They angled their heads into the study.

The room was a palette of black and white, and most of it was covered in leather. The walls were barely visible under the hundreds of paintings and portraits, and the hardwood floor gleamed in the firelight. A woman sat in a chair – black leather, of course – with her legs crossed. She wore a tailored gray wool skirt and black leather boots, with a pale blue sweater. Her red hair was pulled back into an elegant ponytail and she was smoking a cigarette, tipping the ashes into a small glass tray on a table beside her.

"Well, don't just stand there and stare. It's rude."

Her voice was low and commanding, and she had a distinct southern twang. Sam got the distinct impression that she was the one with the money. _Geoffrey probably got his job through her, _he reasoned. _He rose through the ranks at in his field too fast to have worked his way up._

Dean cleared his throat and smiled wanly, stepping into the room. Sam followed.

"Good morning, Mrs. MacGregor," Dean said, holding a hand out to her. She shook it gracefully. "I'm-"

"I know who you are," she said.

_I sincerely hope not, _Dean's expression said.

"Ian told me you'd arrived." She paused, looking down at the fire. "Sit."

Dean looked uncomfortably at him. Sam shrugged, and they sat in the two free chairs across from her.

"I suppose you'll want to unearth all our deep, dark secrets. All the sordid details of our family life. Makes for good newsprint and water cooler stories, I don't doubt." She'd set her cigarette down and picked up a glass. Sam could smell the scotch from where he was sitting.

"Not to be rude, ma'am," Dean said, "but sordid details and deep, dark secrets are the kind of things people get clawed to death over. I know it's not easy, but we'd appreciate your cooperation."

She rolled her eyes and took another sip, wincing as she swallowed. "Is that how he died then? Clawed to death." She smirked and took a long gulp of scotch. "It's ironic."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "In what way?"

"Let's not mince words, gentlemen," she said. "You've got a maniac to catch and I've got a funeral to plan. Geoffrey was kind enough, and I won't deny that I loved him, but the man's dick dribbled at the mere thought of fucking a woman who could leave a mark."

Sam spluttered at her words, but Dean chuckled approvingly. "Your nails are pretty short, Mrs. MacGregor."

"Long nails are for whores and drag queens." The fire flickered. "And murderers, it seems. I keep mine nice and neat, just like my mama taught me."

"So Geoffrey outsourced for talent, did he?"

"Dean-"

But she was laughing. "That he did. To tell you the truth, I didn't mind so much. I'm a very vanilla girl, and Geoff was good to me, as far as that went. If he banged a waitress with a mean set of acrylics while he was away on business, well…let's just say I wish my first marriage had had problems so easy to solve." She shook her head, still smiling. "Geoff and me were alright, you know? We both loved golf and murder mysteries, and he was the only man I ever knew who didn't tell me not to cross my legs in front of company. You know what I mean?"

"Uh…"

"Of course you don't," she said.

Sam wasn't sure how to respond. He hadn't expected to hear a wife approve of affairs and wasn't sure how to proceed, though Dean was enjoying himself. She poured him a glass of scotch and Dean took a long gulp, nearly choking. That sent her into another bout of laughter.

"Jesus," Dean said. "I tip my hat to you, miss. I've been bested."

"Oh, dear lord," she said when she finally calmed down. "You'll have to forgive me. I don't often drink so much, and I've been less than ladylike, I know."

"Eh, propriety's overrated," Dean said. "I wish everyone we talked to was this open. You wouldn't believe what we've had to do to drag information out of people…"

She pressed her hand to her chest and smiled coyly. "Should you really be sharing all this with me, Mr. Fed?"

Dean winked. "You seem like the kind of woman who can keep secrets for her country."

Sam cleared his throat.

"You mind if my partner here takes a look around upstairs? I know the locals already went over it with a fine-toothed comb, but fresh eyes can't hurt." The smile Dean gave her made Sam want to avert his eyes. "Besides, it'll give us some more time to talk without Miss Muffet here to gasp at every curse word."

Sam cut his eyes at Dean, who ignored him, keeping his eyes on Charmaine MacGregor.

She laughed again. "No problem at all, Agent." She nodded at Sam. "Do your worst."

"Thank you," Sam said awkwardly, maneuvering around Dean to get back to the hall.

He stopped in the doorway and looked back in on them. They were both grinning like loons and sipping scotch, and Sam could feel her loosening up even further. _She'll spill all the guts she has within the hour,_ he thought. His annoyance at Dean's dismissing him faded as quickly as it had come, and he couldn't help but smile. Dean was genuinely enjoying himself with her, ulterior motives or no, and Sam was glad for him. How much longer did he have to enjoy anything? It might be the ultimate den of iniquity, but Sam doubted they served beer in hell.

Or scotch, for that matter.

* * *

Geoff and Charmaine MacGregor had a predictably large bedroom. They had dropped the leather motif and opted for a much softer look with rich browns and reds. The walls were a warm tan, like the carpets, and there were so many pillows on the bed that it was a wonder none fell off.

_God, I miss having an actual bed, _he thought, opening drawers. Memories of his life at Stanford came crashing back with an irritating persistence. His room there had been small, true, but it had been his, and he'd returned to it every day, usually with Jess. Having a home base had been so nice after being on the road for his entire life, and he had savored every moment of his time there, perhaps knowing in the back of his mind that it wouldn't last. He wondered if Merida had a house, and what kind of bed she had in it…

_Focus, _he admonished himself.

The drawers contained nothing out of the ordinary, so he moved on to the closet. Apart from some run-of-the-mill porn mags and a very strange doll, there was nothing in there to write home about, either. He was feeling along the bedroom walls for hidden panels when Ian spoke, scaring the shit out of him.

"You guys have a warrant?"

He whirled around, sighing when he realized who it was.

"Anybody ever tell you you shouldn't sneak up on a cop when his back is turned?"

Ian leapt onto the bed, his chains jingling. "Nope. No cop's ever been here before. But you didn't answer the question, did you?"

"We're working with the local authorities. We don't need an extra warrant." Sam hoped the kid believed that.

"Mmm." Ian folded his hands behind his head. "So. Auntie tell you about Uncle Geoff's side piece?"

"She mentioned his…other women," Sam said, resuming his search of the room. "Though it's nice of you to be concerned. I can see you're anxious to find out who killed your dear uncle."

"He was an okay guy. Took me in when my mom went to rehab. Again."

Sam paused. "Sorry."

"Whatever." Sam listened to Ian take a deep breath. "So are you gonna tell Jennifer's mom?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think it'll help anything." His sarcastic tone was gone. Sam was glad; sincerity suited him much better. "It'll just make her even more sad."

"Tell her what?"

Ian sat up, suddenly suspicious. "I thought you said my aunt told you about this?"

Sam walked over to him. "She told us he got it on with a few girls on the side, when he was out of town. Some kind of fetish."

"Oh, right." He seemed embarrassed and got up. "Well, forget I said anything-"

"Hey, hey." Sam took him gently by the arm. "Don't be like that. We're trying to catch a murderer, here, Ian. Don't hold out on me."

In considered Sam for a moment, then closed the bedroom door. "Okay," he said. "But don't tell her I told you. She might not even know, so…so just don't say anything about it."

Sam held up his hand. "Scouts honor."

Ian crosses his arms, looking all of fifteen years old. "Jennifer Tierney, that girl who died? My uncle had a thing with her."

"Define thing."

"They were head over heels. Not much more to say than that."

"And what didn't you want me to tell her mother?"

He hesitated.

"Ian…"

"She was pregnant, okay?"

"_What_?"

"Yeah."

"Did your uncle know?"

"Yeah. They were planning to run away together. Only…"

"They died." Sam wracked his brains. "Where were they going, do you know?"

"My house. It's about thirty miles away, near-"

"Where his body was found."

Ian appeared to consider this for the first time. "I guess it was. You don't think-"

"I don't know what to think." He hoped Dean was almost done with the missus; they needed to do some extreme digging. "Who else knows about this, Ian?"

"Nobody, I think. Maybe a doctor. I don't know if she told anyone, so it's hard to say."

Sam nodded. "Thanks, man. You have no idea how much you might have helped."

He moved past Ian, headed downstairs.

"Agent Stanley?"

Sam turned on the stairs. "Yeah?"

"You're gonna catch this guy, right? The killer?"

"Count on it."

Ian nodded, fingering his crucifix. "Good." He turned and headed back down the hall.

Sam made a mental note of his actions as he walked back into the study, where Dean was waiting. Mrs. MacGregor was asleep, now, and Dean was gently pulling her glass out of her hand.

"Poor thing," he said, meeting Sam in the doorway. "And so nice for a blue blood."

Sam ushered him outside. "We've gotta talk, man."

Dean rolled his eyes as they walked to the car. "Lighten up, Sam. I was just kidding about the Miss Muffet thing-"

"Not that. It's about Jennifer Tierney. She was pregnant with Geoffrey's love child."

Deans eyes widened.

"And – get this – the place where they found his body? It's right near where he was planning to run away with Jennifer."

"Wait, run away with her?"

"They were in love. Ian says they were three sheets to the wind. The wife didn't know."

Dean shook his head. "Like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives," he said in a deep, resonant announcer's voice.

"There's more. The place they were running to? It's Ian's parents' house. His mother's away at rehab, and they took Ian in. I guess MacGregor was planning to use it as a place to hide Jennifer before she started to show."

The color drained from Dean's face.

"What is it?"

"I think I know how the vics are connected."

"How?"

"Before she passed out, Charmaine told me that MacGregor's real father is Shaun McLaughlin."

"Who?"

"Edmund and Ross's father."

"Holy shit."

Dean opened the driver's door. "I know. Geoffrey's mother was a tavern waitress in town back in the sixties. She hooks up with old man Shaun, but he's already hitched. So he sets her up with Terry MacGregor, they get married, she turns up pregnant, and it's all sewn up. Charmaine only knew because she and Geoff's mom were both on the sauce and were in the same AA group."

"So this means the vics really aren't random." Sam sat down and closed his door, reaching for the heater. "They're all McLaughlins. By blood, anyway."

"So, what, a banshee's after this family? Why?"

"I don't know, but…" he trailed off, eyes locked on the glove compartment.

Dean poked him. "You all right?"

"I just realized something…"

"Don't tell me Marlene's been kidnapped by Stefano on top of everything else."

Sam shook his head impatiently. "The McLaughlins. Remember how I said they'd been successful from day one?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Look what happened to MacGregor – his mother was a broke waitress. She gets pregnant with Geoff, and boom – she's married to one of the town's most eligible bachelors and by all accounts has a pretty good life. Then Geoff graduates from college top of his class and hooks up with Charmaine, who's got old south money, and voila, he's the most successful banker in the region by the time he's thirty."

"And Jennifer," Dean added, thinking. "You said she got some promotions at work. What do you wanna bet that all the luck kicked in the moment she got pregnant?"

"Luck?" Sam shook his head. "I'd say it's a little bit more than luck, Dean."

"You're right, but what else to call it? It can't be a demon deal – they're good for one person only, and they only last ten years at any rate, unless you're me."

Sam grimaced in sympathy, but they were on a roll; he could feel sorry for Dean later.

"So, what, then?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, it's ending in blood."

**Thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave a comment.**


	4. Marked

It was painted mint green and had those ugly yellow, solar powered lights along the path to the door, but Dean had to admit that Jennifer Tierney had a pretty nice place. The house had three bedrooms plus a den, and even though it was covered for the off season, he imagined that the in-ground pool was the site of quite a few parties in the summer time. The rooms were loaded with secondhand IKEA furniture, giving the house an atmosphere of faux sophistication. He usually found that kind of stuff pretentious, but somehow she had made the concept charming in an earnest, hopeful sort of way.

_Cut down in the prime of life, _he thought, shaking his head as he combed through her kitchen drawers. _Damn shame. _

He suddenly wished he'd had the chance to meet her before she died. By all accounts, she was one of the friendliest – and hottest – people anyone they'd talked to had ever met, and was a hell of hostess. His stomach clenched as he thought of how her face looked now as she lay in the morgue on that stainless steel table, staring up at the fluorescent lights through sightless eyes. Lord knew they'd seen more dead bodies in their lifetimes than most doctors ever would, but he's been struck by how much like Sam she'd looked.

Gray.

Cold.

Still.

He slammed the kitchen drawer, trudging up the narrow staircase. The house wasn't revealing much, and his mind was wandering to places he'd rather it didn't.

_Sam is back. It worked. _

When he woke in the middle of the night, terrified it had all been a dream and expecting to find Bobby waiting in the next room and Sam still laid out like a side of beef, that was what he needed to remember. The kid had been dead and rotting on the floor of a cabin for a day or two, but he was back now. They were together, a family again, and that was what mattered.

_At least until-_

Something gleaming in the corner of the room interrupted his thoughts and he headed over, moving a jewelry box aside. He frowned, picking it up and turning it over in his hands.

It was a small piece of glass. From a mirror.

Dean turned back to Jennifer's dresser. There was no mirror there.

"Well, well," he said aloud, looking around for more glass. "Somebody got sloppy."

He didn't find any more pieces.

_Banshee's got a sidekick, _he reasoned. _Someone to clean up the mess. But who…and why?_

There was nothing else out of the ordinary in the house, and after a second sweep, he headed outside to see if Sam had found anything. Dean spotted him on the side of the house near the front gate and was about to call out when he saw her, leaning against the wooden fence.

She was beautiful, thin as a rail, with hair so blond it was almost white. Her eyes were light, too, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't get a lock on their color. Her face was perfect in almost every way, but something about it was…off.

The pieces of it didn't quite fit together, it seemed to Dean; her eyes were simultaneously too big and too small, her nose seemed to change shape with the angle of her head, and her mouth seemed to extend past the edges of her face. She was like a dream image, molding and changing like a chameleon in response to something.

_What the hell is she?_

"…nice girl, but a little vacant in the head," she was saying. Sam was watching her and smiling, matching her movements. _God damn it, Sam, _he thought, pressing his body against the house so he wouldn't be seen.

"Yeah, her mom said something similar," Sam told her. "We talked to the other vics families, too, and you wouldn't believe some of the tidbits we picked up."

Dean could tell she was more interested in that information than she let on.

"Is that so? Care to share?"

Sam laughed, and Dean rolled his eyes. _A pretty face and a blonde dye job, and you're just locked and loaded, eh, Sammy?_

"It's confidential," he said. "Bureau regulations."

She leaned in, and Dean's hand moved toward his gun. She was whispering.

_Shit. _What was she saying?

Dean squinted at them, as though that would help him hear better, and noticed Sam's posture change. He's been standing straight and tall before, but now he began to waver on his feet, swaying in her direction. His knees buckled and he fell forward into the frosted crabgrass.

Dean pulled his gun, moving quickly toward them.

"Hey!" he called. Her head snapped up, and for a second Dean thought he saw something ugly cross her features. Then it – and the chameleon quality her features had had before – was gone, and she was just a frightened girl, backing away from him.

"Don't shoot!" She tripped as she backed away, falling onto her ass and scooting away from him.

"Stay down!"

He kept the gun pointed at her, kneeling next to Sam, who had regained some balance and was breathing in gasps, his hand resting on the fence for support.

Dean grabbed him by the shoulder. "Hey! Hey, man. Stay with me. You all right?"

Sam groaned, rubbing his forehead. "What happened?"

"Your little girlfriend zapped you with something," he said, his tone accusatory. He risked another glance over at her. She was still sitting there, her eyes trained on his gun.

Sam shook his head and looked at her. "Merida? What's going on?"

"Yeah, _Merida_," Dean spat. "Don't be shy."

She pressed her lips together. "It's not what you think."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I'll bet."

She tried to move and Dean raised his gun until it was level with her head. "Don't even think about it, Goldilocks."

Sam got slowly to his feet, still unsteady. "Who are you?"

"I already told you," she said, cocking her head. "C_aleb_."

"What did you do to me?" Sam swayed on his feet, grabbing the fence for support. "Why am I so dizzy?"

"It'll wear off, Sam Winchester."

Dean stepped toward her and she backed further away. "How do you know who we are, bitch?"

Her lips parted in a razor smile. "It's good to meet you too, Dean. I didn't think we'd get the chance before…well."

Sam's breath left his chest with a huff. "What do you know about that? What do you want with me?"

"Believe it or not, I was trying to help you."

"Help him what? Take a power nap?"

"Put the gun down, and maybe we can talk."

"Fuck you."

She clicked her teeth. "Potty mouth. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to speak that way to a lady?"

"Hey!"

The three of them turned their heads as a man with a large dog stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house. "You leave her alone!"

"It's okay, sir," Dean said, holstering his gun and pulling out his FBI badge. "Federal agents."

"I don't care if you're the goddam president!" he said, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm calling the cops."

"There's no need for alarm, sir," Sam said, walking toward the man with his arms outstretched. "Please, just-"

A rock flew past his head and struck the man in the temple. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Merida laughed, moving between them with spider-like grace.

"I knew softball would pay off one day," she mused. She winked. "See you soon, Sammy."

The air around her shimmered and she disappeared, leaving them standing there.

* * *

They sped away from the scene, pulling onto the state highway just as the police arrived in front of Jennifer Tierney's house.

"Shit." Dean hit the gas. "Guess the call went through, after all."

"Wouldn't have mattered," Sam pointed out, rubbing his temples. Black spots still floated in front of him, though not as many as before. "We're made."

"Yeah, I know." He took one hand off the steering wheel and touched Sam's face; there was a small black mark on his left cheek. He tried to rub it away, but it wouldn't budge. "You okay?"

Sam swatted his hand away. "I'm fine."

"Then what's that?"

"What?"

Dean pulled his mirror down and Sam looked into it, spotting the black mark and rubbing at it. It looked like a smudge of soot, but he couldn't dust it away. "What the hell?"

"What was she saying to you, Sam? Before you hit the floor. I couldn't hear."

Sam frowned, trying to remember. "I don't remember," he said. "She was whispering something…like a song…but I don't know what it was."

"She marked you," Dean said, turning onto another highway. "And that ain't no tattoo."

Sam shook his head. "I can't believe I was such an idiot."

"Stop it. It's done, now we deal with it. Where did you meet this…thing?"

"It was after you went to Corrina to check out the bodies. I was…taking a break, looking at the river, and she just kind of walked up to me."

"What did she say?"

"She started talking about the case," Sam muttered, averting his eyes. "Told me about the McLaughlins…"

"So she just volunteered this info, no quid pro quo?"

"Yeah. And later, when we met for lunch…"

Dean chuckled darkly.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know."

"Didn't you see her face, man? That didn't clue you in?"

"What about it?"

"You know. The eyes, the shifty nose, the giant mouth."

Sam stared at him.

"Look, I know you were pitching a tent for her, but even you can't have missed…"

He trailed off as he realized Sam hadn't seen anything.

_What the hell does that mean? _

"Never mind. She was feeding you facts about these McLaughlins, which means she knows why we're here. She's some kind of monster. She's gotta be involved somehow."

"How? Banshees aren't human, Dean. They don't shimmer like desert mirages, and they don't throw rocks at people."

"There's the human fingernails to think about."

"Is Merida human, dude?"

"Fair point."

"I just feel like there's some huge piece we're not seeing. It's like, I can almost see how all of this fits together, but not quite, you know?"

"Not really. The whole thing is straight out of Rose Red, if you ask me."

Sam looked into the mirror again, rubbing at the smudge.

"And the plot thickens," Dean said.

"What do you mean?"

"The house. In the bedroom where Jennifer was found, there was a broken mirror. But here's the thing – someone cleaned it up. They left a piece – that's how I know there was one there – but whoever it was went all out to make sure the police didn't see it."

"Mirrors," Sam said, folding up the one above his head. "Well. There's a lot of lore that says mirrors can show people's true selves, trap spirits, yadda yadda. Could be the monster can't deal with them. But was there anything on banshees and mirrors?"

"Bobby didn't mention anything."

"So who got rid of it? Merida? Why?"

Dean turned into the motel parking lot and swung into the space in front of their room. "I got no idea. But we'd better find out. She did something to you, Sam. And I'm willing to bet it's bad for your health."

They kept an eye out as they unlocked the motel room door, but nobody had followed them, and no one was outside. They slipped into the room and closed the door.

"'Bout time you two idjits showed up." Bobby was sitting at the small kitchen table, eating a pot pie. "Had me thinking she'd already taken you, Sam."

"When did you get here?" Dean tossed his pack onto the bed and headed into the kitchen, Sam following close behind. "I thought you had a thing in Memphis?"

"The Memphis thing can wait," he said. "We got bigger fish to fry."

Sam sat down. "You know what she is?"

"You betcha. And you're gonna love this one."


	5. Hunters Talk

**Thanks for the reviews and favorites everyone! I love getting feedback. Here's the next chapter.**

* * *

Dean took a bite out of a Twinkie. "A psychic?" he said, his mouth full. "What, like Missouri?"

"Naw, she's somethin' else. They call 'em Confessors."

It was early evening and they'd ordered a pizza, letting Bobby get the door, just in case. Sam watched Dean fidget and pace the room, trying to find something to do. His brother hated being cooped up in one place for too long, but there was nothing they could do about it; there was no way to find out if they were wanted without risking their hiding place being discovered. After two hours of Dean's antsy, meaningless activity, Bobby had finally snapped and told Dean to stop climbing the walls and do something useful.

Dean, true to form, had dug out a box of Hostess snacks and started eating.

Sam stroked absently at the mark Merida had left on him. It itched in a distant way, but otherwise, it didn't bother him. _Not yet, anyway._

"Do we wanna know how they got that name?"

"Prob'ly not," Bobby conceded, "but you gotta know anyway. Confessors are psychics who pal around with the dead and dying, gettin' them to confess their sins, wishes, that kind of thing. Helps the spirits move on to wherever they're set to go."

"So she's a ghost whisperer," Dean said, nodding. "Think she's ever seen John Edwards on one of his crossover missions?"

"That's how she knew about Dean," Sam said, ignoring him. "She mentioned the deal," he explained when Bobby looked confused.

"I'll bet," Bobby said. "She ought to know all there is to know about you two, considerin' all the dead people who've crossed paths with ya."

"It also means she knows about you, Sam." Dean finished the Twinkie and opened another. "Your whole psychic visions deal. It's probably how she made us in the first place."

"That's what I came to tell ya." Bobby drew his flask out of his pocket. "She's gonna want you, Sam. She's probably pretty powerful on her own – Confessors aren't exactly run-of-the-mill – but you're in a whole 'nother league, boy. You're lucky your brother was there to save your skin."

Sam pressed his lips together. "Yeah, Bobby, I know. I screwed up. I'm sorry."

Bobby waved him off. "Ah," he said. "Can't say I blame you. She's quite the looker, in a Jack Skellington sort of way."

Sam looked embarrassed, but Dean chuckled. "You should have seen him, Bobby. He was leaning up against the fence for support before she even laid her mojo on him."

"What exactly did she do?"

Dean spoke before Sam could get a word in. He leaned against the fridge in a crude approximation of Merida's posture. "She was all, 'Oh, Sam, the dead chick was an airhead, tee hee hee!' and Sam just stood there, grinning like one of those racist dolls we saw in Shreveport-"

"She touched me," Sam interjected, scowling at Dean. "On the face!" he added quickly. "And then I got dizzy and almost passed out-"

"His body wasn't ready," Dean said through mouthful of yellow cake.

"And she was whispering something…it sounded like a song."

Bobby frowned. "That all you got?"

"They got interrupted before they could finish," Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Neighbors."

"It was some guy walking his dog. He saw Dean holding us at gunpoint and pulled out his phone," Sam explained. "She threw a rock at him. Knocked him out cold."

"Yeah, she's got one hell of an arm. She got the best of me once when I was hunting a vengeful spirit in Helena. The shiner she gave me lasted for two weeks. Looked like a battered wife."

"You?" Dean tossed the empty Twinkie packets into the trash at sat down at the table with them. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Welp, she was there to take the spirit's confession, I was there to burn its bones. Conflict of interest. She let the spirit take possession of her and proceeded to kick my ass."

"And then?"

"I woke up on the floor of the haunted shack. Spirit was gone, so was she."

"So that explains the nails," Sam said.

"Nails?"

"The vics the banshee killed. Their faces were clawed like they'd been cornered by a snow leopard. DNA from the nails was human."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Son of a bitch. She let the banshee take possession of her. And now, whenever it's on a mission-"

"It can do physical damage, too," Sam finished. "What about the mirrors?"

"They were broken, weren't they?

Dean was surprised. "Yeah, how'd you know? You didn't mention mirrors when I called you."

"That was before I knew who you were dealing with."

Sam leaned forward. "What about them? Can they hurt her?"

"Naw, not really. They can expel the spirit, though. In a nutshell, when a possessed confessor looks into a mirror, they get an eyeful of their true reflection. It's too much for the psychic's mind to handle, and it expels the spirit and returns the psychic's body to equilibrium. She probably broke the glass before the banshee killed the girl."

"And she cleaned it up because she knew we were in town."

"Looks that way."

Dean flipped through a book Bobby had brought, not really reading it. "Okay. So for some reason, she's allowing this banshee to ride her like a cowboy and kill a few McLaughlins. Considering it's only been nine days since this whole thing started, I'd say things are going pretty well for her."

"Thanks for the recap, Dean. I feel a lot better about our chances now."

"My point," Dean continued, "is that all her ducks were in a row. If she hadn't tried to roofie Sammy, we wouldn't even know she existed. So why'd she clue us in?"

Bobby sighed. "She wants Sam."

"Yeah, you said that," Dean shot back, his voice sharper than it had been, "but what for? Doesn't seem like she needs him, to be honest."

"She's not the only one, kid." Sam could tell that Bobby didn't want to say anything more, but he knew Dean would never let that sit. "I talked to Ellen. I told her to ask around, see if she could get any more info about your banshee."

"And?"

"And a lot of things would like to get their hands on Sam. Word about the devil's gate is out – not that it was ever really under wraps – and lotsa folks think Sam here is the key to setting things right. She's been deflecting other hunters as best she can, but they know she's in bed with you. Won't be long before they stop listening to her advice."

Dean muttered something under his breath and got up from the table, pulling two beers from the mini-fridge.

"Is that how you heard about Merida?"

"Lots of psychics do a little hunting here and there – they have to, if they want to stay alive – and hunters talk. Ellen heard she was up this way sending spirits on, and when I mentioned the banshee, she told me to get my ass up here and make sure you two had a heads up."

Sam smiled weakly. "Remind me to thank her the next time we meet. Does she know if Merida wanted me for a specific reason, or…"

Bobby shook his head. "Could be to ransom you to other hunters. Anyone looking to open the devil's gate. Or summon demons. Or send 'em to hell."

"Back at that house," Sam recalled, "she said she was trying to help me, even if I didn't believe it. What do you think she meant by that?"

"Son, I don't know," Bobby said, "but you'd best steer clear of her. Nothing good's like to come of you mooks crossing paths again."

"But-"

"Quiet." Dean sat down again. "We're gonna track with bitch down and kill her dead, and the banshee along with her."

Sam frowned. "She's human, Dean. We can't just kill her in cold blood."

"I didn't sell my soul to a brunette in a little black dress to save you just so you could be auctioned off to the highest bidder by a Christina Aguilera look-alike. You'll do what I say, Sam. We kill the monsters. Both of them. End of story."

* * *

"I can't fucking believe this."

Dean shoved another pillow between them, frowning and tugging more blankets to his side of the bed. Sam did his best to get comfortable, but he doubted Dean was going to make it easy. His brother was a hard sleeper, and they hadn't slept in a bed together since they were teenagers. _This is gonna be a long night, _Sam thought.

"It's not that bad, Dean," Sam whispered, not wanting to wake Bobby. There had been no more free rooms at the Shining Star motel, and there were only two beds in their room. Neither of them had had the stones to ask Bobby to share. "We've done it before."

"Yeah, when we were both five seven and a hundred and fifty pounds. How the hell am I supposed to get any sleep with your giant ass taking up all the space?"

"Maybe if we moved some of these pillows–"

"Forget it, sasquatch."

"What, are you afraid I'm gonna cop a feel while you're sleeping or something?"

"Not in so many words."

Sam froze. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You're a cuddler. Always have been."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. I'll wake up at two a. m. and you'll be scaling me like a tree."

"That was one time! I was having a nightmare!"

"It was at least three times."

"You-"

"Don't make me get out of bed, you two," a gruff voice muttered from the other side of the room. "I'll bring my gun."

"Sorry, Bobby," Sam muttered, shooting Dean a glare he couldn't see.

"Kiss ass," Dean whispered.

"If you're so worried about my _cuddling_, why don't you sleep on the floor?"

"Fuck you, it's like eight degrees. At least you provide heat, even if you're a bed hog."

Sam tried to think of a witty retort and came up empty.

Dean snickered.

"Shut up."

They lapsed into silence for a while.

"Dean?"

Sam felt Dean shift. "What?"

"I…"

"What is it, Sammy?"

"I'm not gonna quit, Dean."

"What?"

"Trying to break you deal…"

"Oh, my god."

"I mean it."

"Please don't do this right now."

"When then? You never want to talk about it any other time."

"God damn it-"

"I was dead, and you gave up everything to bring me back."

Dean sighed.

"I haven't forgotten that. I'll never forget that. And I'll never stop trying to save you. I'll do whatever it takes. I just wanted you to know that."

Dean chuckled. "You sure do know how to turn up the awkward dial, don't you, Sam?"

"You left me no choice, man."

"Whatever."

"I mean it, though. We're gonna get out of this. You'll see."

A few more moments passed in silence.

"I don't really know what to follow that up with," Sam said.

Dean laughed, trying to keep it to a whisper.

"You can just stop there, I think."

"Seems anti-climactic, though, doesn't it?"

"It's okay. 'You'll see' is a good ending line. Could use a music score, though. Something with violins. Or a slow piano solo."

"Maybe the theme to A Walk To Remember?"

Dean's laughter rose above a whisper and he coughed to cover it.

"Why am I not surprised you know the theme to that movie?"

"It was one of Jessica's favorites."

"Yeah?"

"I fucking hated that movie."

"Aww, did it make you cry, Sammy?"

"It's a cancer movie, Dean. If you don't cry, you have no soul."

"Is it worse than Titanic?"

"_Nothing_ is worse than Titanic."

"That'd be a good song, though, wouldn't it?"

"Don't you dare, Dean."

"_Near…far…wherever you are…"_

"Shhh." Sam said quickly, tensing.

Dean fell silent, reaching under his pillow for his gun.

"What is it?" he asked after a moment.

Sam relaxed and sighed dramatically. "Nothing. I thought I heard the banshee. Sounded like it was trying to sing."

"Eat shit, Sam."

It was Sam's turn to laugh.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed!**


	6. Cursed Dreams

**Taking some major liberties with Celtic lore here; assume that everything you read here is fiction, including the creatures. R & R!**

* * *

Sam walked barefoot alongside the swimming pool, surprised at how warm it was. _Figures, _he thought. _She got knocked up with a McLaughlin, got promotions, extra money, the works. Heated concrete's the obvious next step. _

He and Dean had returned to Jennifer Tierney's house to have another look around, as Merida had cut the last one short. They were in the backyard, looking for anything that might help them catch their monster. It was dark and should have been cold, but the heat from the pool and the ground had also warmed the air. Dean poked around in the bushes with the end of a pool net, looking for god knew what.

"It's a banshee, Dean, not a sparrow. It's not going to be in the bushes."

"Shaddup," Dean said. "Maybe Jenny hid some banshee-nip back here, and we can toss it into an empty dumpster and close the lid when our little Fay Wray shows up. We could be done with this shit tonight."

"Fat chance," Sam said, dipping his toes into the water.

Dean replied, but Sam couldn't make out the words; Dean was crawling through the bushes now, making them rustle.

Sam laughed. "You got company in there?"

The rustling continued, then stopped abruptly.

Dean didn't emerge.

"You okay?"

Nothing.

"Dean?"

Sam jogged over to the bushes, peering inside. Dean was nowhere to be found.

"Dean!"

"Now, hush, sugar," Merida said. "You'll wake the neighbors."

She was sitting on one of the poolside lounge chairs, naked. Her hair covered her breasts and most of her midsection, her legs folded cleverly to conceal everything else. She perched her chin on her knee, smiling coyly at Sam.

"What the hell did you do with him?"

She feigned insult. "Sam, how could you think me so wicked? I haven't done anything to your precious Dean."

Sam whirled around, looking for Dean and any other trap she might have laid. If Bobby was right, he would have to be a lot more careful from now on; every new person he met might be out to kill him, or use him.

He saw nothing and turned back to face her, holding out the pool net Dean had been using like a sword.

"What do you want, Merida?"

She shrugged. "Just your help."

"Why should I help you do anything? You attacked me!"

"That was a mistake, I admit," she said. The playfulness left her and she turned solemn and resolute. "But I'm gettin' desperate, all right? I cain't afford to wait on you and your brother to decide I'm not after your demon powers or whatever you want to call 'em."

"Desperate? Why?"

"The life of people like me is rough, Sam," she said. "I'm sure I don't have to explain all that to you. But the time to break my curse is running out. When the banshee is finished with its' work – "

Sam narrowed his eyes. "So it is you. You've been killing all of these people. Why?"

"It's not _me,_" she snapped. "I'm just a conduit. It's the curse. Both of them."

"Both?" Sam had gradually been moving toward her, and now he sat down across from her on another of the lounges. "There are two?"

"Yes. Mine and the McLaughlins'."

"They're cursed," he said thoughtfully. "That's how they've been so successful. They made some kind of deal, didn't they?"

Merida nodded. "Siobhan, that was her name, the one who made the deal. She swore on…a family heirloom that if she and her family found safe passage and prosperity in the New World, she'd give seven souls of her progeny to the beast as payment."

"And now it's time to pay up."

"Three hundred years to date."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Why would this beast accept a deal like that? I mean, seven souls for three hundred years of plenty? Why is he such a cheap date?"

"He's anything but. The seven souls give him the power to come to earth."

"And do what?"

"Eat."

Sam grimaced.

She shrugged again. Her hair slipped away from her breast, leaving it uncovered. Sam did his best not to stare. "Old world gods are simple. They come, they eat, they leave."

"So how did the banshee get involved in all this? Nothing in the lore says anything about banshees bargaining or eating people."

"Banshees are carriers," Merida said. "Bound to the beast. They used to say the banshee screamed until it scared the condemned's spirit from his body, but the noise really just causes a massive seizure and kills them. The beast gets the spirit, the banshee gets out of its cage for a while, and everybody wins."

Sam fidgeted. It was far too hot out here, and Merida's hair had somehow slipped over her shoulders and onto her back, leaving him with a very generous view. It was odd; he hadn't seen her move very much and she seemed to have forgotten that she was naked.

"Sounds like they've got a pretty good deal going," he grumbled, trying to keep his mind on the subject at hand. "So how do you play into all this? Why is the banshee possessing you? Can't it scream on its own?"

"That," she said, frowning, "is the only reason I even considered approaching either of you. You're the only ones who can help me."

"Stop beating around the bush, Merida."

"I ran afoul of a witch a few months back. Though I'd killed him, but I hadn't, and he laid a whopper of a curse on me."

"What does it do?"

"Allows things to possess me. Anything I come across. You can imagine how bothersome it becomes for someone like me. Every spirit who calls out to me to help settle its debts can ride me like a ten speed."

Sam's eyes coursed over her. The sun in her hair, the curve of her breast, she…

_The sun?_

Sam looked around to find that the sun was high in the cloudless noonday sky. There were tan mountains off to his left and trees lined the street on the other side of Jennifer Tierney's backyard wall, green and full.

"What the hell?"

She frowned. "I said, spirits can possess me-"

"What's going on? Why is it daytime?" He stood and ran a hand through his hair, scanning the bushes for Dean again. He had forgotten Dean for a while there, and now hours had passed and he was still missing. _Shit. _She must have enchanted him again, and this time she hadn't been interrupted. "And where are we?"

She looked around. "You tell me, Sam. This is your party, after all."

"Wha-"

"You're asleep. This is a conference call."

He spluttered, turning in circles and taking everything in.

"Are we in Stanford?"

"This looks like Nor Cal, doesn't it?" She stood, walking over to where he was.

He fixed his gaze on the sky.

"You can invade my dreams," he said. "Dean's gonna love this."

"It's not like I can control you," she said, waving a hand in dismissal. "It's just a conversation. I can't even control where we are."

Sam swallowed. "You think you could put some clothes on?"

A slow smile spread over her face. "I can't do anything. I should point out that if you really wanted clothes on me, they'd be there."

"Is this why you marked me? So you could play Sandman?"

"I needed a way to talk to you. Your posable-action-figure brother would have killed me on sight if I'd tried to meet you in real time."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, he's a shoot first, ask questions never kind of guy."

"So I noticed."

"So what do you want me to do about this? I mean, we've gone up against curses before, and they're impossible to break. All you can do is get out of their way."

"This banshee thing is not like other curses," she said. "It's more of a deal-with-the-devil sort of thing. You kill the holder of the contract, so to speak, and-"

"The bet is off," Sam finished slowly.

"I said I could help you, Sam."

"Do you know who holds Dean's contract?"

"No," she said quickly. "But I know where the contract is. We get it, destroy it, and you're brother's home free."

Sam wracked his brain. "I've spent days on end looking for a way to break this deal. How come I've never heard of this?"

"The lore only includes things that humans have done. But you and Dean are anything but typical humans."

"We're just…" He couldn't think of an ordinary way to finish that sentence.

She smiled at him.

"It's almost time to go, Sam. Your brother's about to wake you."

"How do you kn-"

"It's not enough to kill the banshee. The god will just send another one. You have to get to him."

"What's his na-"

* * *

"SAM!"

He jerked awake, coughing and spluttering. He was wet from head to waist, and so was the bed under him. Dean and Bobby stood over him, Dean carrying a still-dripping bucket and looking distraught.

"Jesus," Sam said, wiping water from his face. "What the hell'd you do that for?"

"It's three thirty, you idjit," Bobby said, visibly relieved. "You've been sleeping like the dead since you hit the hay last night."

He sat up, looking around. Sunlight filtered in through the window at a low angle. "Oh."

"Oh?" Dean exhaled and tossed the bucket onto the floor. He sat down near Sam's feet.

Sam shrugged, wiping his face again.

"What the fuck happened, Sam? You were mumbling the whole time, but we didn't get a word of it." He put two fingers to his temple and a thumb on his cheek, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he looked less wound up. "Was it another one of your psychic visions? A psychic movie marathon?"

Sam hesitated before answering. "Yes and no."

Dean scowled.

Bobby rolled his eyes and reached under his bed. When his hand reappeared, there was a bottle of whiskey in it.

There was no point in hiding it from Dean; she had provided valuable information about the hunt that he couldn't have gotten any other way. _Better leave out the part about finding Dean's contract, though. _

"It was Merida."

Dean's eyes bulged dangerously in their sockets.

"You were right," Sam said hastily. "She is the one who's been killing these people. She gets possessed by the banshee, kills the vics, and the thing mauls their faces for entertainment, I guess. That's why the nails tested human."

Dean's fury began to give way to confusion.

"She _told _you that?"

Sam nodded. "The stuff in front of Jennifer's house – the mark – she just needed a way to talk to me in private. A witch cursed her, and she hoped we would come here to solve this case. She can't control the possessing spirits, Dean. She's been cursed, and so have the McLaughlins."

"Cursed? How? They've been riding the rainbow since time out of mind."

"Some kind of Faustian deal. An immigrant woman made a deal with a pagan god, promised him the souls of seven of her descendants in exchange for three hundred years of prosperity. Time's run out, and if the god gets all seven souls, he gets to come to earth and chow down."

"Let me guess," Dean said. "She needs us to kill the thing."

"Natually."

"And what does she get out of all this?" Bobby kicked off his shoes. "What does she want from you, Sam?"

"I…I'm not sure. Maybe to help break her curse."

"Can't break a curse, man. Just-"

"Get out of the way, I know, but she can't get out of the way. I woke up before she got to finish, but she said she's running out of time. I think when the banshee is done with all this, it might do something to Merida."

Dean glanced over at him. "She say that?"

"No. But it feels right."

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Bobby pulled a messenger bag up from the floor on the other side of his bed. He reached inside for a book, setting it on his lap. "For now, we got to find out what god we have to kill. If the banshee's just some kind of courier, killin' it won't matter; monster'll just send another one."

"This thing have a name?" Dean looked over at Bobby, trying to read the cover of the book upside down.

"Woke up," Sam said. He tugged at his damp shirt. "Didn't get one."

"Well, if he's Irish, he's in here," Bobby said, waving the small book. "Encyclopedia of all things Celtic and evil."

"He sends shrieking bitches to do his dirty work, and he's chomping at the bit to get topside and have himself a big Sunday dinner. Should narrow things down, don't you think?"

"Must be our lucky day," Bobby said. "Right here on page twelve. Guess there are only a few flesh-eaters in the pantheon. Go figure."

Sam got up and walked over to where their bags were stashed, digging for dry clothes. "Who is it?"

"Anu," Bobby said. "God of plenty."

"God?" Sam pulled on a dry shirt. "Aren't most deities of prosperity and fertility female in Celtic lore?"

Dean turned slowly to face him, a bemused look on his face.

Sam shrugged.

"Took an elective about it. Seemed like it might be useful one day."

"This guy trades tribute for treasure. Used to take the bodies; guess the souls get him more bang for his buck." Bobby turned a page. "Must have made a killing during the potato famine."

"So how do we kill this asshole?"

"Well," he said, scanning a page before closing the book, "says here we have to get him to eat "the fruit of the evergreen of the mountains." Poison to him."

"There are thousands of evergreens. How do we know which one?"

Sam thought. "It'll be native to Ireland, and probably pretty rare," he said. "And it's got to have some kind of fruit that people might eat on it. People don't describe evergreen needles as "fruit.""

"Fine, Johnny Appleseed, a pine tree with berries or some shit. In Ireland. Even if we find it, how the hell are we gonna get it here?"

"Won't matter if Anu doesn't put in an appearance until it's too late," Bobby said. He stood, slipping his shoes back on. "We need the blood of his tribute to summon him. I'm going down to Corrina to get it."

"I'll come with you," Dean said. "I'm gonna burn this mother down if I don't get out of this friggin' room for a while. "

"Have your brains leaked out of your fool head, boy? You two can't go anywhere near the police station. The FBI is here – the real deal, remember them? – and they've heard about the two agents who rolled into town before the FBI even processed the request."

Dean started to complain but Bobby held up his hand. "Find out what you can about this Merida Fletcher, you two. If she really is on the up and up, she might have some idea where to find this evergreen. Don't do anything stupid, y'hear?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"What's with you?" Dean snapped after Bobby's car pulled out of the lot, pissed at being stuck in the motel room, once again.

Sam had been spacing out, thinking of Merida's mention of the family heirloom that Siobhan had sworn on to make the deal with the god. They might be able to use it to find him if they could get it.

He started to tell Dean about it, but for some reason that was unclear even to him, he held back. Perhaps it was because he suspected it might be useful somehow in breaking Dean's deal. He didn't see how that could be – Anu was no demon, and as far as they knew, had nothing to do with hell – but there was a connection there, he could feel it.

And maybe he didn't want to share all of Merida just yet. She might be screwing them over in a major way, but Sam didn't think so. _I like her, _he thought. _I trust her. And she's one of the only people who gets what it's like to be…_

What?

Psychic?

Infected with demon blood?

Tainted?

"Just thinking," he said. "He needs seven victims to fulfill this curse and stay on earth permanently. We should figure out who's next and warn them when we go to meet Merida."

"Mmm," Dean mumbled. "Three hundred years, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam chuckled. "He's patient, I'll give him that."

Dean's amused expression was tinged with sadness.

"Should have checked out the pagans before calling on the friendly neighborhood demon, huh?"

Sam started to reply, but Dean disappeared out the motel room door, closing it with a soft click. Sam watched his shadow move across the closed blinds as he leaned against the Impala.


	7. This Whole Thing Stinks

Dean tried to wrinkle his nose and glare at Sam simultaneously, and ended up looking like he was trying hard to take a very resistant shit. Sam told him as much, and as the vehicle lurched out of the parking lot with a series of belches and farts, Dean finally relented and pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Why is it," he said in a clogged tone, "that we always end up with the filthy end of whatever stick we're handed?"

Sam turned the garbage truck with a broad motion, doing his best to stay in his lane. "Cause we're the maintenance crew," he said. "We don't take out the trash, it piles up."

"Yeah, well, it's your turn. I washed the dishes. Why'd you have to drag me along?"

"We have to talk to them at some point; they might know something we can use."

Dean rubbed the skin under his nose, pressing his index finger against it. "There was no other way into this place? We couldn't have pretended to be carpet cleaners or something?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Quit your bitching. You're out of the motel room, aren't you?"

"These people better have some damn good information." He screwed his face up, rolling down the window. "I'm gonna smell like a baked landfill for a fucking week."

The cold snap had lifted, and temperatures were well above freezing; the sun was out again and people had emerged from their houses and returned to town now that they could do so without ski masks and lederhosen. Sam pumped the brakes and shifted gears as they made another wide left onto the private highway that led to the northern edge of Platsworth.

The McLaughlins had proven elusive; even the tabloids had stopped hounding them, choosing instead to pester the FBI for information about the local killer. They were calling him The Bear Claw, Sam had heard, and according to the local news, he was a failed plastic surgeon who'd lost his marbles and gone on a killing spree.

If only.

The McLaughlins had had a rather large funeral repast the day before, and had called for a special pickup from the waste company. The news anchor had mentioned it, lauding in a somber tone the McLaughlin's deep commitment to supporting local business, even during such a time of tragedy.

Knowing it was the only opportunity they were likely to get before another body turned up, Sam had paid the trash workers on this shift a hundred bucks each to skidaddle for a few hours, claiming it was an FBI sting operation. He didn't know if they believed him or not, but they took the money.

"We get anything new on Ross or Eddie? Tabloids turn up any more secret babies? Estranged Nazi second cousins?"

Sam chuckled. "Nothing. Except for the whole curse thing, these two were as clean as sheets at the Ritz."

"So why should we bother with the Baldwin Brothers again?"

"The McLaughlins are at the center of this. There's no way we know everything yet." He slowed the truck as they approached the massive gate at the edge of the property. "Besides, what else can we do? Bobby's got the blood to summon Anu, but until we get the evergreen and figure out a way to make him eat it, we can't kill him."

Dean put his feet up on the large dashboard, scratching his ankle. "Speaking of which. What about your little Irish cream? She's a turbo-charged psychic who's possessed by the banshee of the god we're hunting. She got any juicy tidbits we can use?"

Thirty-six hours had passed since he'd seen her in the dream; she wasn't answering his calls, and they'd been too worried about getting caught to venture into town looking for her. He'd been afraid the banshee got to her and they'd find another body, but so far they had nothing.

"Dunno. Haven't heard from her."

"Don't you two have a mind-meld, or something?" Dean unlatched his seat belt. "Can't you, I dunno, put up a bat signal?"

"We're not in the Justice League, Dean."

"Still. I mean, have you tried?"

Sam let his hands drop from the steering wheel and turned to his brother. "Since when are you so gung-ho on the whole psychic thing?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm not, but our hands are kinda tied here. You said yourself we can't make a move on this god until we've got the juices and berries. Merida's our banshee hostess for the evening, and the best source we got."

Sam peered at him through narrowed eyes.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just surprised, that's all."

Dean grinned with one half of his mouth. "You ain't seen nothin' yet." He jumped down from the truck before Sam could inquire further.

"C'mon," he called up, slamming the truck door. Sam climbed out, not bothering to lock the driver door.

The north lawn of the property was littered with yellow funeral programs and the petals of some kind of artificial flower, giving the impression that someone had destroyed a rather large piñata and taken off with the candy. The folding chairs still stood in rows, facing a small stage upon which two blown-up photographs stood. Ross and Edmund McLaughlin wore pale green and white shirts, respectively, and gray ties, the background of both photos an identical deep tan. Edmund looked solemn and reticent, his expression dignified; Ross' toothy smile was good-natured and mischievous, and it combined with his thinning hairline and pointed ears to create an elfin aura. His photo rocked in its easel as a gust of wind kicked up a few of the programs before dropping them again.

There was nobody outside, and Sam and Dean trudged through the grass with large trash bags, shaking them open with loud rustles and snaps. Sam hoped the sound would carry to the house and bring someone outside, but they had no such luck; after fifteen minutes of loud waiting, it became clear that one of them would have to ring the bell.

"C'mon, man."

Sam gestured at the scene before them. "I'm gonna look around out here."

"Look around for what? You think the banshee dropped its wallet?"

"These people are ground zero for this whole thing. There's gotta be something that can help us, and that something could be hiding right out here in plain sight. They might not even know it's here."

Dean grinned facetiously, pulling at the seam in his crotch. They'd been forced to wear the uniforms of the men they'd paid; they couldn't exactly head back to the personnel department and pick up new ones. Sam had taken the larger of the two – the only one he could zip in the back – and Dean had been left with the other. Nothing bulged obscenely, but it was more than a little snug.

Sam did his best not to crack a smile.

"Sure, Sammy. That's the reason. It couldn't be because we look ridiculous in these uniforms. Or because we smell like rotting porta-potties."

"It's not _that_ bad."

Dean snatched Sam's bag from him. "No. Not this time. You got us into this mess, you can go interrogate the Madoffs reeking of eau de dumpster. _I'll _look around out here."

Sam watched Dean set about picking up programs, wearing an open-mouthed and disbelieving smirk.

"I don't believe it."

"What?"

"You're ashamed."

"_What_?"

"You're ashamed to be seen as a garbage man in front of these high society people."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Give me a break."

"Mr. I-don't-give-a-shit-about-shit wants to impress the haves."

"I don't give a crap what these people think about me, all right? I just don't want to stink up the place."

"Yeah, okay."

Dean glared at him.

Sam held up his hands. "Whatever. I'll go. Just holler if you run into trouble out here."

"I'll be fine."

* * *

The front door was open.

Sam knocked on the polished wood, the motion causing the door to swing in further.

"Mrs. McLaughlin?"

No one answered.

He leaned in, glancing around. The entry way was completely devoid of furniture and décor. He stepped carefully inside, not wanting to scuff the hardwood floors, and ambled from the foyer into the living room. This room was bare, as well; a pile of plastic sheeting sat in a corner, but all other signs of residence had been removed.

_This isn't troubling at all, _he thought.

"I'm from the waste management company," he called, looking up a flight of stairs. "We're here to clean up after yesterday."

He received no reply, and was about to go and call Dean in when the patio door slid open and a middle-aged woman stepped inside, cursing the cold.

"Are you Mrs. McLaughlin?"

If she was startled by his presence, she didn't show it. "Yes," she said. "You must be from the trash comp'ny. I was hoping you'd be here."

"I didn't mean to intrude, but nobody answered when I called, and I wasn't sure what you wanted us to take…"

"Oh, it's no problem. I'm the one who should have been waiting. Just been…busy."

Sam smiled. "I'm sorry for your loss. Your husband was a good man."

She slipped off her scarf, hanging it on a wall hook. "Oh, I'm not Suzy; she and the kids moved out after Ross passed. Lisa – that's Edmund's wife – moved down to Iowa with her. Fresh start."

"Can't say I blame them."

She held out her hand. "Carrigan. Ross and Edmund's first cousin."

"I'm Sam."

He cringed inwardly. _Please don't remember that._

"Good to meet you, Sam." She crossed her arms over her heavy sweater. "So…we just need the yard cleared of all the paper, and there're bags of trash upstairs and on the lanai out back. The festival's in two days, and the last thing we want are stray funeral programs blowing about."

She giggled nervously.

"Festival?"

"Lughnasadh. It's a harvest tradition around here. Wrong time of year, but we'll make do. It's Irish in origin, but nobody cares about that sort of thing now. Everyone from town shows up; even a few folks from Corrina make the trip."

Sam smiled, leaning against the doorframe. It was hard to turn on the charm wearing a garbage uniform, but he had a bad feeling about this festival; they needed all the info they could get.

"It's wonderful how invested you guys are in the town, even after everything that's happened."

"Yes, well, all the more reason. People need something familiar, to smile about after this dreadful murder business. What could be better than an ancient festival of food and prosperity?"

_Almost anything._

"So it's pretty standard fare then, huh? Hay rides, popcorn, candy…"

"Oh no, we go full traditional." She reconsidered. "Well, not all the way, but close enough. It's at least more Irish than St. Patrick's Day, anyway. There's bonfires, dancing, the cutting of the corn, even little prayers and offerings to the gods. They used to 'sacrifice'"- she made air-quotes - "animals in the old days, but I think that'd be in poor taste in light of recent events. The local Christians wouldn't care too much for it either, I don't think."

_Fuck. _

"Sounds nice."

Her eyes roamed over him for a bit, and then she smiled warmly. "Yes, well, I do have to get on with some business. Gotta have a permit for the bonfire, so…"

"Oh." Sam chuckled. "Right. Of course. Sorry. We'll just get the trash. Happy…harvest festival."

She gave him one last once-over and disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

"You really shouldn't be so oblivious, Dean."

The gun was in his hand and pointed at her before she took another step toward him.

She lifted and eyebrow. "Sure do get it up fast, though, don't ya?"

"Oh, you have no idea, honey. But if you take another step, you're gonna find out."

He had filled three bags with discarded programs, but dozens still blew around them. The grounds were as deserted as they had been when he and Sam had arrived, but now the birds were silent as well, and insects that had been chittering had stopped. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"What are you, the Orphan?"

She chuckled, her hair swirling – rather beautifully, if he was honest – around her head. "The birdies and bees don't like banshees."

"That was terrible."

"It's was, but it's true. They can sense it on me, even if I'm not…currently occupied."

"And I'm sure Raid Industries could make fantastic use of your unique talents, but we got no use for you. So how about you stay out of my brother's head and out of our hair while we deal with all this."

"Didn't Sammy tell you about how all this works? This banshee rides _me_. Without my help, you got about as much chance of landing a ticket as Ralph Nader does."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"The point," she said, taking a tentative step toward him, "is that you're not going to get far without my help. Not alive, anyway."

"Listen, babe. Me and that kid? We're professionals. We've been through shit that you can't even being to-"

"Save it," she said dismissively, tugging at her gloves. "This thing-"

"-God-"

"-knows you're in town. I haven't felt the banshee's presence since my little rendezvous with ten ton Tim in there. This thing needs three more souls to complete the ritual, but he doesn't seem to be in much of hurry any more. We gotta find out why that is, Winchester."

"I think I know," Sam said from behind Dean.

Dean jumped and nearly dropped his gun. "Jesus, Sam! Shuffle your feet or something, man."

"Sorry." He looked over at Merida. "You been screening my calls?"

She grinned, still playing with her glove. "I got shit to do."

"I'll bet."

"You've been busy, too." She pointed at his nametag. "Emanuel. Bit hifalutin' for a trash man, don't you think?"

"That's Associate Waste Manager to you. And last time I checked, it was you who was begging me to clean up your mess."

She laughed. "Touché."

A sexual charge passed between them and Dean rolled his eyes.

"The Batman-Catwoman thing was tired in the eighties, kids. Let's get back to business."

Sam chuckled, tugging at his crotch where the uniform had snagged. Merida lifted an eyebrow and took a step toward him. Dean raised his weapon again.

She held up her hands. "Permission to approach the bench, your honor?"

"Relax, Dean," Sam said. "She's not gonna kills us."

Dean reluctantly holstered is gun as Merida moved closer. "So what'd you find out?"

"Lughnasadh."

"What?" Dean and Merida said, simultaneously.

"An Irish harvest festival, held to honor the gods and promote prosperity for the next year. Ancient traditions, animal sacrifices, ceremonial prayers to the divine, the whole kit and caboodle."

Merida frowned. "When?"

"Day after tomorrow. Here, at this house."

"You gotta be shitting me."

"Nope."

"So he's waiting for the big day, when everyone's worshipping him. What, is the banshee just gonna brain-bleed the final three and leave the rest as appetizers for Anu's housewarming party?"

"Looks like it," Sam said, "but here's where it gets interesting. The main McLaughlins left? They moved to Iowa. They won't be here for the ceremony."

"Are we sure they're not dead?"

"I don't think so. Carrigan would have mentioned something."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," Merida said.

They turned their attention to her. Dean sneered.

"How do you figure?"

"Any of Siobhan's progeny will do. Doesn't matter how closely they're related now. This thing's still got Ian MacGregor, Carrigan McLaughlin, and a score of others around here to snatch. And that's just in this county. There's no telling how many descendants she's got and where they've moved over the years."

"So what do we do?" Sam winced as a funeral program smacked him in the face, kicked up by the wind. "She we warn them?"

"What's the point? We'll never be able to protect all of them."

"The point is that they're innocent people!"

Sam sighed. "Dean-"

"Look, lady, I know you pal around with ghosts and monsters, but the living still matter to us-"

"You know," she said with a poorly concealed sneer, "I'm getting sick of your hell-bound brother here, Sam. This snarky attitude was cute for a while, but he's starting to piss me off-"

"Oh, bring it on, sweet thing. I don't like you tooling around in my brother's head, and I don't like the fact that we have to deal with a monster's meat suit to get this job done. If it was up to me, I'd kill you now and be done with it-"

"Hey!" Sam reached for Dean's gun before he could pull it. "Let's just hear her out, okay?"

"Wh-"

"Please, Dean," Sam said tiredly. "We _need _her. More than you know."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Ugh!" The wind kicked up again, nearly knocking Sam and Dean over in the process. "Shut up! We have to trap and kill him before the night of the festival; rituals are more powerful during such times, and it'll be easier for him to cross over if he waits! He's got no reason to rush now; there are plenty of descendants and _we can't protect them all._ We'll use your summoning spell to get him here and put him down."

"And how the hell do _you_ know about that? You been spying on us?"

"I know Bobby Singer went to Corrina to get the victims' blood, dipshit. It wasn't hard to put two and two together."

Dean started to speak but Sam interrupted him. "We also need an evergreen, a really specific one. Got any ideas?"

"I might know someone who could get it. What's the name of it?"

"Not sure, but the lore called it "The fruit of the evergreen mountains." The fruit of this thing is poison to him."

The nodded thoughtfully. "Leave that to me. I'll get it."

"Oh! Great. So now, you just happen to know how to get your hands on the one thing we can't find. How coincidental."

Merida gave Dean an acid glare, then turned back toward Sam. "I'm gonna go get this evergreen, and anything else I can find to help us destroy this thing." She gestured at Dean. "Keep this dog on a leash."

"Fuck you-"

Sam sighed.

"And Sam?" She met his eyes directly and gave him a meaningful look. "You said the McLaughlins moved out. Look around. Keep an eye out for anything…special… they might have left behind. You never know. It could be a dealbreaker." She smiled coyly. "See you tonight."

She vanished.

Dean glared at him.

"How the hell does she do that? And do you wanna tell me why you're so gung-ho to trust this bitch?"

"We-"

"We what, Sam? _What_? Because she's the shadiest thing since the palm tree."

"What choice do we have? Do you have another way to find the evergreen to kill this thing?"

"No, but-"

"And isn't it better to have the banshee's BMW nearby us in case she hulks out? We can keep her from hurting anybody, Dean."

"That's not the point-"

"I know it's not." Sam sighed and sat in one of the chairs. "I know that. But…it just seems like you're overreacting a little on this."

"_Overreacting?_"

Sam put his face in his hands.

"Overreacting to a woman who's basically mind-fucked you every way but doggy-style? Who's both the monster and the only source of information we have?"

Sam hesitated. "Nevermind."

"No, Sam, spit it out. What is the hold that this girl has over you?"

For a moment, he considered it. For a second, he opened his mouth to tell Dean what they were planning. Why he _really _needed Merida. Why they both did. And then he didn't.

_He'd never agree to it, _Sam reminded himself. _He'd just find a way to stop it. Hell, maybe part of him wants to go to hell. _

No.

Sam had to save him.

"I'm going to look around for clues in the house," Sam said. "You keep searching out here."

Sam stood and walked away.

"Sam!"

But he didn't turn back.

* * *

**Sorry for the long delay. Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to drop me a line.**


	8. And I Must Scream

Sam turned the medallion over in his hand, the cold pewter smooth against his palm. It was about the size of the base of a plastic cup, and it was very old; he didn't recognize the inscription carved into it. He slipped it into the pocket of the uniform, pulling his cap down over his face as he rounded a corner on the way back to the motel.

The McLaughlins had hidden it in the floorboards in the guest bedroom. In hindsight, it should have been one of the first places he looked, but it had seemed too obvious a hiding place. It was only after he'd checked all the walls in the house, torn up some of the carpet in the closets, and gone over the empty attic with a fine tooth comb that he considered the floorboards.

Dean hadn't spoken to him as they'd cleared out the trash from the house and yard, opting instead for dark glares and "accidental" bumps into Sam. Sam didn't blame him; Dean could always tell when he was lying, and he had every right to be angry that Sam was keeping secrets from him. He could Dean with Dean's emotions – what he couldn't deal with was Dean's skills as a hunter, all of which would be focused on stopping Sam if Dean discovered that he was taking steps to break the deal. Thankfully, the thought didn't seem to have entered Dean's consciousness, even after Merida's rather pointed comment.

It was evening now, just before sunset, and Dean walked about a quarter mile ahead of him; far enough away to let Sam know he was still pissed, but close enough to respond in case things went south.

_Always trying to protect me, even when he doesn't trust me. Fucking saint. I'll end up in hell if I don't find a way to save his ass. _

Dean disappeared around a corner and Sam quickened pace to catch up with him. He caught sight of Dean again as he crossed the motel parking lot, banging on the door to their room. Sam had made it all the way to the door by the time Bobby opened it, and they stepped inside, kicking off their shoes.

"Christ almighty," Bobby said, fanning the air in front of his face. "You pick up the garbage or go for a swim in it?"

Dean ignored him, stripping on his way to the bathroom.

Sam sighed. "Nice, Dean."

He closed the bathroom door, and the shower came on.

Sam sat down at the table, resting his forehead against the heel of his hand.

"That bad, huh?"

Sam chuckled humorlessly. "Least we have a plan now. There's a festival, day after tomorrow, out at the McLaughlins' place. Honor the harvest gods, you know the drill. Anu's gonna put in a guest appearance at this thing; I guess it's easier for him to cross over if he completes the ritual while people worship him."

"Where'd you learn that fun fact?"

"Merida."

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

"Don't bother. I already got it from Dean."

He raised the other.

"I'm not saying she's Mother Teresa, all right? But we scratch her back, she scratches ours. She needs out of this as badly as we do. She's a prisoner to this thing."

"So she says."

"She's not lying. I'd know."

"You sure?"

Sam was silent.

"Just trust me on this one. We need her, Bobby. We _need_ her."

Bobby gave him a measured look and took a drink from a glass that looked like it had been sitting on the table awhile.

"Okay."

Sam studied his face, concluded that he was being sincere, and leaned back in his chair. "Thanks."

Bobby pressed his lips together in a thin smile. "Sure thing."

* * *

When Dean emerged from the bathroom, Sam was already asleep on the floor beside the heater, his head resting on a roll of clothes.

"Hope you enjoyed the sauna. We'll be taking ice-cold showers in the morning."

"Eh, we'll live. 'Sides, maybe the ice water'll shock some sense into him."

"You don't trust her, I take it?"

Dean scoffed. "Can you blame me? The girl's dancing in his head right along with the visions of sugar plums. Hell, she's probably wearing a thong made of 'em."

Bobby shook his head. "If she's cheerleading for the visitors, though, what's her end game? Why even talk you two mooks? She's had a million chances to kill ya."

"You're telling me you think she's on the up and up?"

"I ain't saying she'll be sending us any Christmas cards when all this is over, but I don't think she's running this show, neither."

Dean tossed a damp towel into the corner with the uniforms. _Sorry Emanuel, _he thought. _You and your partner'll have to get new threads from the back room. _

"Did Sam tell you that she was tailing you? She knew you went down to Corrina to get the blood."

"You think I was born yesterday? I know she followed me, kid."

"And," Dean continued, "she just so happens to know someone who can get us the evergreen. Isn't that lucky?"

"She's a confessor, Dean. No great shock she knows where some rare artifacts are hidden. Spirits must tell her all sorts of stuff."

Dean pulled on a flannel shirt. "What, suddenly you're her fan club president?"

"I'm just being realistic here. Maybe you should stop layin' into this girl and fess up to what's really got your goat."

Dean glared at him and sat down on the corner of one of the beds, elbows on his knees. He sighed and glanced down at Sam.

"He's lying about something, Bobby. I know it."

"What?"

He looked up at the ceiling, puffing his cheeks as he exhaled. "I don't know, okay? I don't know. And it sounds paranoid and ridiculous, but there it is."

"What could Sam have to hide? And why hide it from _us_? He hasn't done much of that in the past."

"He…I don't think it's anything too bad or serious, but I don't like it, okay? It's…it's bad precedent."

"Welp," Bobby said, getting up from the table, "'till he decides to fess up or you figure out what he's growin' on the back forty, you might as well shovel the shit in front of you. You got an angry god with a screaming bitch for hire just waitin' for the perfect moment to tear into your hides. Worry about Sam's inner demons next week, y'hear?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I hear you."

Bobby turned down the covers on his bed, tossing a duffel onto the floor.

"It's like seven-thirty!" Dean took his seat at the table and cracked a beer, grabbing the remote. "Dr. Sexy reruns are on!"

"We got the mother of all summoning spells to rig up tomorrow. Get some shuteye, kid. That's an order."

Glass clinked as Dean set his bottle down amidst the crowd of empty ones on the table. "G'night, grandpa."

Bobby made a face and laid down, turning away from the television.

Flipping channels while Dr. Sexy, M. D. went to commercial, Dean looked over at Sam, who was shifting under the modest covers he'd found.

_What the hell's going on in there?_ He had stopped scanning channels; an infomercial about grills played on the screen, but Dean didn't notice.

_What are you up to, Sammy?_

* * *

"Did you find the damn thing?"

They were sitting on a park bench under the glow of an invisible street lamp in a garden Sam didn't recognize. It was night, but butterflies floated around them, landing on too-bright flowers.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know, the place is your creation, remember? The butterflies are mine though. You like?"

Sam considered them. They were all orange with black piping – Painted Ladies. He remembered them from his first butterfly farm; a project for his second grade class. Dean had given him endless shit about it.

"Yeah," he said. "I do, actually."

"Good. Now did you-"

"_Yes_," he said, leaning toward her. "I got it." He looked down and realized he was still wearing Emanuel's uniform; reaching into the pocket, he found it empty.

"It was right here-"

She laughed; Sam watched her, touched by the sound. "You're asleep, asshole. Just think about it, and I'll be able to see it."

Sam closed his eyes and _pushed, _the way he had when he'd sent Dean the vision of Yellow Eyes' town.

"I said think about it, Sam, not try and squeeze it out of the end of your dick."

He spluttered and she laughed some more, throwing her head back with abandon.

"Here," she said, holding out her hand. He placed his hand in hers, and she brought it to her lips and kissed it softly, a coy look in her eyes.

"Wh-"

But he felt it, her _power, _flowing from the end of his fingers to his heart.

"How-"

"Think," she mumbled against his hand.

He closed his eyes again, imagining the feel of the cold metal, the depression of the engraving, the rough outer edge-

-and just like that, it was between their intertwined hands.

"See?" She placed his hand on her knee, turning the artifact over in her own. "You're just out of practice. You got some real juice, though."

She winked.

Sam swallowed an inappropriate reply. "So, what do you think?"

She nodded, grinning excitedly. "This is it, Sam. I really think this is it!"

"This is the talisman? The one Siobhan swore on?"

"Yes…" She shook her head in awe. "I can't believe it, but _yes_." She met his eyes, narrowing hers. "Who are you two? Really, I mean?"

Sam smiled. "We're Sam and Dean Winchester, hunters extraordinaire."

"You're more than that." She placed her hand on top of his, moving it from her knee to mid-thigh. "What are the odds that the McLaughlins were the ones who kept this thing all these years, and that you'd be the ones to find it?"

"I don't know," Sam said, "but I'm not checking this gift horse for strep. Do you really think you can use it to break Dean's deal?"

"It's a contract," she said. "Of a kind, anyway. It's an ancient coin, and it meant a lot to whoever first minted it. When she swore on it, it became a binding agreement, like a kiss with a crossroads demon."

"How does that help us?"

"Well," she continued, "contract-binders are rare objects, and they have certain things in common, magic-wise. We can use this one to find your brother's contract, and once we know where it is, we can destroy it."

"And then Dean'll be home free?"

She nodded.

"But wait," he said, shaking his head. "Won't Dean's contract be in _hell_? How will we get to it?"

"We get someone to retrieve it for us."

Sam's expression darkened. "A _demon_?"

She shrugged. "Whatever works."

"No way."

"Sam-"

"Demons are what got us into this mess! We're not dealing with any more of them!"

"How else did you think this was going to work? Did you think it would be all clean and pretty? Of course we'd have to deal with demons! You're brother's gonna end up in hell, Sam. H-E-double-hockey-sticks. Do you understand what that means? Do you know what happens to human souls in hell?"

Sam searched for a retort, something that would convince her – and himself – that dealing with demons was a line they shouldn't cross, that there were things even he wouldn't do to save Dean…but there were no words. Because there was nothing he wouldn't do.

Nothing.

"You know any friendly demons?"

She chuckled. "Let's just take care of Anu first, okay? Then we have to find your brother's contract. And we'd better hurry," she added, looking worried.

"Why do you say that?"

"I've heard things. Whispers from evil souls, old haunted places. It's why I came to town, to meet you guys and get you to break my curse. They said you'd be here. I think…they're planning something. Something involving you two."

"Who? The demons?"

"Yes," she said. "And no."

"What?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "We'll worry about it when we have to." She scooted closer to him so that his hand was practically in her crotch.

"But-"

"Close your eyes."

After he rolled them, he did.

When he opened them, a bed had replaced the park bench. It was enormous – probably a California King – and the comforter and pillows were jet-white. They were both naked now, sitting cross-legged and facing one another.

"Now," Merida said, walking on her knees toward him until she straddled his lap. "We've put this off long enough, wouldn't you say?"

Sam's hands moved up her silken thighs to her hips, resting there as their lips met. Her body pressed against his and her hands moved over his shoulders, trailing gently over his skin. She snorted, tickling his back with her nails.

Sam yanked her tighter against him, his hands tangling themselves in her hair.

"Mmm," she said, "aren't we aggressive."

Sam tossed her down onto her back and she bounced, laughing, onto the pillows. Sam swatted at two butterflies that landed in her hair and slid between her thighs, pinning her arms on either side of her head.

He leaned down and went to work on her neck, and she groaned and bucked against him, tightening her thighs around his waist. Then, she opened her mouth and screamed, and Sam thought for sure it would kill him.

The sound tore at his mind from the inside out, and he twisted away from Merida, pressing his palms against his ears. It helped not at all; the piercing wail drove nails into his brain and out through his eye sockets. He grunted and leapt off the bed, running through the grass and away from the bed under the street lamp.

The sound followed him, broken only occasionally by the passing bunch of trees. Sam ran with his eyes closed, unthinking, unfeeling, only moving away, away, away from the terrible sound. Rocks cut into the soles of his feet and he nearly slipped as the sprinted through the damp grass, the increasingly cold air raising gooseflesh all over him.

He reached a road and crossed it, sucking in air in huge gulps. The sound had stopped, and he hadn't had the time to process the sweet silence when she appeared a foot in front of him.

Or, rather,_ it_.

The body was Merida's, but the head was like the end of a rotten log, crawling with maggots and flying beetles. The mouth was a slimy, gaping chasm, and the stench that erupted from it made him double over, his stomach roiling.

It screamed again and he covered his ears with his hands, falling down to the pavement. He put his head between his knees, hoping praying begging to die-

-and then scream died down to almost a whisper.

His hands came away from his ears bloody, and when he looked up, Merida's face was back.

"1-4-3-7 Tripp Lane…" she whined, he head whipping back and forth nearly too fast to see. He face vanished and the banshee reappeared and opened its mouth to scream. There was another blinding shake of the head and Merida was back, he face covered in black muck.

"1-4-3-7…" she garbled, black slime dripping from her lips; she coughed, and a glop of it flew to the pavement below. She stumbled, clawing at her face. "1-4-3-"

But the banshee returned, and as it opened its mouth to scream again, water forced its way down Sam's throat-

* * *

-and he coughed and sat up, gasping for breath.

The light was on, and Sam was struck by a sense of déjà vu as he looked up at Dean standing over him with the bucket and Bobby standing beside him. He was soaking wet again.

Dean tossed the bucket and knelt in front of him, alternately shaking him by the shoulders and touching his face, looking into his eyes, and checking his pulse.

"Jesus, Sam," he said. "You're bleeding!"

Confused, Sam reached up to his ears. His hands came way red and wet.

"What the hell happened in there, boy?"

He closed his eyes and put a hand to him temple, trying to remember-

"Merida! We have to get to her!"

"Fuck Merida, Sam, we need to worry about you-"

"No, no! The banshee! It's got her again! She could kill someone-"

He stumbled to his feet, still coughing and reached for his shoes. Dean stood and grabbed him by the arm, whipping him around.

"Sam!" He smacked Sam's face lightly and shook him. "SAM!"

Sam stopped moving and took a deep breath.

"Where is she, Sam?" Dean's forehead was practically touching his. "Where?"

"14…143…something…"

"Think, Sam. Think."

'"1-4-3-7! 1-4-3-7… trick lane? Tick lane?"

Bobby already had his shoes and coat on, and was holstering his gun. "Close enough. This town's not that big."

Dean set about getting dressed and Sam moved to do the same.

"Sit down. You're not going anywhere."

"But-"

The look Dean gave him stopped him mid-sentence.

He sighed and coughed and sat down, trying to think.

God, his head was about to explode.

"Don't fucking go anywhere, you hear me?"

By the time Sam had mustered the energy to reply, they were gone. He laid back on the bed, holding a pillow over his face. He passed out.

* * *

**Stay tuned! The next chapter is going to be action packed. R & R!**


	9. Oh, The Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise

_**Chapter 8: Merida and Sam's communal dream is interrupted by the banshee; Sam wakes up in the motel room, bleeding and disoriented. After pinpointing Merida's location, Dean and Bobby head to her house to get rid of the banshee.**_

* * *

It was cold as shit outside, but Dean trudged forward like it was midsummer in Aruba, loading a salt round as he approached the small house. Bobby was right on his heels, his own gun drawn and aimed in case she came out before they reached the door.

Tripp Lane was a shallow cu-de-sac with just four houses to its name. 1437 was on the left, completely dark, and worryingly silent.

"Think it's still got a hold of her?" Bobby dropped his pack to the ground and pulled out a thin iron chain, handing his gun to Dean.

"I dunno for sure, but you know what they say about safety and sorrow."

"Shoot to miss," Bobby said. "Drive her into the garage. I'll make the loop before the thing recognizes what's going on."

"You sure the echo'll be strong enough in there?"

Bobby shrugged. "You got any better options, I'm all ears."

_We could take her out now and be done with it, _he thought. He could still hear Sam screaming, and it made him want to kill her dead, evergreen or no evergreen. What would it take to keep evil shit out of Sam's custard? _I already sold my damn soul. What's left to lay on the line?_

He stepped onto the porch, peering in through the front window. It was dark inside, but he thought he saw something move among the shadows.

"She's inside," he mouthed to Bobby, who nodded and wrapped the extra chain around his wrist. He raised his gun to shoulder height. "You good?"

Bobby gave him an incredulous look and headed toward the side door to the garage, chain rattling.

_Here goes nothing._

Dean took a deep breath, stepped back, and kicked the front dooropen, stepping through before the thing had time to react.

The room was a black void; the door bounced against the doorstop behind him.

Nothing moved.

Dean stalked along the south wall, his eyes open wide in the pitch darkness, sensitive to any sign of movement. The room couldn't be bigger than fifteen feet or so across, judging from the outside, so he knew he'd be able to cross it quickly if he had to. All he needed was a single clue, one false move…

And then the thing went for it, leaping at him from the opposite corner. Dean could feel the air vibrate with the beginnings of its scream, so he shot off a round, the end of his gun flashing as the salt round caught the thing somewhere. It released a loud, shuddering scream, but not one that hurt Dean.

"Well, that was underwhelming." He shot another round up at the ceiling and moved to the west wall. "I've heard you got quite the set of pipes. Don't tell me that's the best you can do-"

-and he let off another round before the thing could get its bearings; in the extremely dim light that filtered in through the open front door, he saw it scamper down the hall toward the back of the house.

_Hope you're ready, Bobby, _he thought, taking the time to reload.

"C'mon, aren't you gonna sing me a lullaby?" He fired into a room on his right, then hauled ass to the first bathroom, standing just inside and leaning out the door into the hallway.

A few moments passed without incident, so he crept back into the hall, moving as silently as he could. _Not sure why you're bothering to creep_, he said to himself, scanning each room for signs of movement, and finding none. _She's gonna blow out _your _eardrums, not her own. _

The door to the garage stood slightly ajar, and a small mat sat in front of it. Dean knelt to inspect it, finding an inky black substance smeared onto it. He squinted as hard as he could and spotted another smudge of the muck a few feet away.

He crept in that direction, feeling his way along the floor for more footprints and following them down another seemingly endless hallway.

_This place is bigger than it looks from the outside, _he thought bitterly, squinting so hard he was getting a tension headache.

They really needed to invest in some fucking night vision goggles.

The hall finally terminated at a pair of cheap-feeling French doors. The room they opened into was pitch black – naturally – and Dean hesitated before pulling the door open. What if it was some kind of trap and he ended up with a brain bleed?

_What the hell else are you gonna do, champ? Get in the car and go home?_

Sam's twisted face and bloody ears floated into his mind again, and he scowled, yanking open the doors.

"Get out here, you bitch!"

He opened fire into the dark space, firing one shell after another. The flashes illuminated the room for a moment and Dean caught sight of a washer and dryer and some shelves. He had barely registered the images when the scream to end all screams reached his ears.

Dean Winchester had experienced some monster hangovers, but none of them had come even close to preparing him for this.

He wasn't even aware of dropping his gun or falling to the ground, but he found himself on the floor, head between his knees and hands over his ears. Shards of glass were carving devil's traps on the inner walls of his skull and his eyes were about to pop, the pressure in his head was so great. His throat began to ache, and he realized that he too was screaming, the sound of it drowned out by the wails of the banshee.

And then all the sound was gone.

His own moans reached his ears and he rolled onto his back, pressing his fingers against his eyes. The sharp, blinding pain had been reduced to a dull ache, and he looked around him, surprised to find that he could see – a dim light was emanating from the garage door.

"Dean!"

Someone was calling him…who was that?

"DEAN! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE! I GOT HER!"

"Bobby…" Dean scrambled to his feet, leaning against the hallway wall as the room spun. "Bobby!"

"GET A MIRROR, DEAN!" Bobby appeared in the doorway. Dean could still hear the banshee screaming, but the bite was gone; now it was just an ugly, annoying (and loud) sound. "She's in the loop. We got to get it out of her, or it we can't kill it! GO!"

Dean shook his head and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, yanking drawers open blindly and feeling around for a mirror.

There were none.

_Of fucking course there aren't, _he thought.

He was about to hit the kitchen when he caught sight of the medicine cabinet. He opened the door and yanked hard, tearing the door off its thankfully rusted hinges-

"DEAN! HURRY UP, BOY!"

"I got it!"

Steadier on his feet now, he trotted down the hall and shoved the door to the garage open, stumbling inside.

The iron chain was draped around Merida in a triangle, the ends linked to two metal shelves and what looked like a stripper pole. A naked woman with a slimy log for a head tripped drunkenly around inside the confines of the chain, crying out every other second with loud, layered, and strangely childlike wails. Every scream sent black ooze flying at the walls and ceiling.

Dean stared in stark disbelief.

"Hold it up, idjit!" Bobby said between screams.

Dean shook his head and held up the bathroom mirror.

The screams suddenly rose in pitch and volume, and Dean's low-grade headache started to return. He fought to keep the mirror in place, using it as a shield between him and the banshee. Bobby's hands covered his own ears and he turned away.

There was a sound like claws scraping across aluminum, and Dean wished he could cover his ears. His headache was back with a vengeance, and he nearly dropped the mirror when Merida suddenly appeared beside him, half her body covered in the black muck of the banshee. She tugged at his arm.

There was a pile of black sludge on the floor inside the chain. It slithered along the floor, leaving a trail of what looked like ink behind it, and writhing like a ball of dough being kneaded by invisible hands.

"What the hell is that thing?' He shouted at her.

She yanked his arm toward the door to the house, her hair plastered to her head by the mystery ooze. "Let's go! We don't want to be here when it dies!"

Dean dropped the mirror, not needing to be told twice. "Let's go, Bobby!"

The three of them ran through the house and out the front door, where neighbors were standing on their porches, staring at the house. They sprinted to the car, jumping in and taking off, the peel of tires barely audible over the cries of the banshee.

They were almost a mile away when something akin to a sonic boom went off.

Dean looked over his shoulder at Merida, who was laid out on the back seat.

"What the hell was that?"

"The death of an ancient monster, that's what."

Bobby swerved out onto the highway, picking up speed when they reached straight road. "If the banshee blew that kind of top, what the hell's gonna happen when he send Anu to meet his maker?"

"Anu's a god," Merida said, covering herself with a blanket Sam had left on the back seat. She wiped her face and head until Dean could see her face. "The banshee…it's older. More powerful, in some ways, at least. Seniority, and all that."

"What was all that shit it was covered in? Is there some black monster lagoon somewhere where they shoot the shit while they decide who to kill?"

She sighed. "The black stuff was blood."

"Who's blood?"

Merida chuckled. "You don't want to know." She waved her hand and Dean caught sight of a cigarette in her hand. He whirled around and she winked, taking a drag off it as she rolled down the back window with her other hand.

"You also don't want to know where these things are born. Or where they go to die." She blew a plume of smoke out into the night and took another puff. "But I have a feeling you're gonna find out, babe."

Her face twisted again, her nose elongating and her smile widening frightengly, for a split second before settling back into the smug, thin face it usually was.

She cut her eyes at him, taking another puff of her magically appearing cigarette.

"What the hell are you staring at?"

"That's a good question," Dean mumbled.

"What?"

He shook his head, settling back into his seat.

Bobby turned into the motel parking lot. "You okay, kid?"

Dean didn't answer.

* * *

Sam was sitting at the table, eating a salad and watching a Shake Weight commercial when they came staggering in. Dean tossed his holster and handgun on the table, shooting him a creeped-out look.

"You need a few moments alone, Nader?" One of the women on-screen held the Shake Weight at head height, jiggling it back and forth. "Didn't mean to interrupt your alone time-"

Sam ignored him and stood. "Is she okay? Did you-"

"I'm fine, Sam." She dropped the blanket she'd been covering herself with, walking across the room the bathroom in the buff. "Just got a little messy."

She closed the door behind her.

Dean cracked a beer while Bobby collapsed into a chair. "Well, she's not shy, I'll give her that."

"What the hell happened out there?" Sam pushed the salad away. "You look like shit. And what is all this black stuff…"

"Blood, according to Miss Cleo in there." Bobby opened the book of Celtic deities.

"Who's blood? Banshees are spirits, aren't they?"

Dean scowled. "It depends."

"It _depends_?"

"Look, Sam, we killed the friggin' thing, all right? The banshee chapter of our autobiography is over. Let's work out how to put paid to our divine party guest, huh?"

"But-"

There was a high pitched scream from the bathroom, and then the shower went off. Something fell to the floor and then the door opened. Merida's face appeared in the crack, dark water dripping down her face.

"What the hell's wrong with the water here? I let it run for ten minutes!"

Dean fought to keep a straight face.

"Dean here had a two hour sauna session last night," Sam said. "Sorry."

Merida rolled her eyes and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door rather harder than was necessary.

Dean leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head.

"You don't have to look so smug, Dean."

"Yeah, well, cry me a river, okay? She's something, Sam, something evil."

"What is your problem with her? I know you don't love the whole psychic thing, but this is getting ridiculous!"

"I got my reasons."

"You-"

"Sorry to interrupt, kind sirs," Bobby said, "but we got other problems. If Merida's got this evergreen, we got to find a way to get it down Anu's gullet. I don't think he's gonna let us buy him a drink."

"Maybe we can gild it and hide it on Ian's belt," Dean said, tilting his bottle toward Sam. "With all the crap he's got hanging from his waist, Anu'd never see it coming."

"Real cute."

"I try."

"Or," Merida said, emerging from the bathroom in a towel, "we could just give it to him."

"Oh yeah? Just like that, huh?"

She turned to Sam. "How do you keep up morale with him around? Meth?"

Sam coughed to cover his laughter.

"Bobby," she said, looking sheepish. "Long time no see. Hell of a reunion, huh?"

"Running around with these two, I'd expect nothing less."

She tightened her towel. "Sorry about your face. I usually save that move for emergencies, but that spirit had solid info. Couldn't let you just toast him."

"Tell you what. You help us kill…God, and we'll call it even."

She smiled. "Deal."

"So, back to the monster," Dean interjected loudly, "care to elaborate?"

She walked over to Dean's side of the bed and unzipped his bag.

"Hey! That's my shit-"

She pulled out a pair of jeans. "What else am I gonna do, Dean? Can't walk around like this, can I?"

_I wouldn't mind, _Sam thought.

"I'm sure Sam wouldn't mind," Bobby said.

Sam looked uncomfortably at Bobby, folding his arms over his chest.

"I don't think we're the same size, princess."

"I dunno," she said, holding up a pair. "Look fine to me."

"I don't-"

She shook the pants a few times like she was trying to remove lint. When she held them up again, they were worn on the thigh and had rhinestone studs on the back pockets.

Dean's face fell.

"How do you do that?" Sam shook his head in awe.

"Witchcraft, wicca, even a little fairy magic. You learn a lot from the dead."

"You can't be a witch, a wiccan, and a fairy, hon. If you got magic, you got it from demons."

"You two use witchcraft all the time."

"That's different."

She held up a smaller pair of Dean's underwear. "Oh?"

"Hey-"

"Relax," she said, setting them back in the bag. "I don't do secondhand panties."

"They're not _panties_-"

She laughed, slipping into the jeans in one move. "You don't mind if I use one of these t-shirts, do you? I won't bedazzle them, I promise."

"Whatever."

When she was dressed, she sat down beside Bobby in the only remaining chair.

"Okay," she said. "Here's how gods work. They get their power from worshippers, for the most part, and tribute for the other part. People adore them, curry favor, and give them gifts, kind of like they did with ancient kings, princes, sultans, you get it."

"Thanks for the history lesson."

Bobby, Sam, and Merida glared at him.

"Sorry, jeez. Please continue."

"Anyway, Anu's off script. He's making deals and taking souls, like demons. Using them to power his exploits, getting to earth chief among them."

"But if he's upgraded to souls, why bother with anything we might give him?"

"Ritual, Sam. Anu might have changed currency, but he's still a god born of tribute and worship. He can't change what he is."

"Which means…"

"Which _means_," she continued, "that if we have a tribute ceremony and present him with a gift, he can't refuse us. He has to visit the court to accept it. We can hide the evergreen in the tribute, and when he eats it…"

"…he _eats _it." Dean raised an eyebrow. "Swanky, very Casino Royale. But what kind of tribute do we even get this thing?"

"Well, usually it was a person, someone important to the summoner-"

Dean started to speak.

"But," she said pointedly, "the only rules are that it has to be something important to them. And object they've placed their faith in. The god takes it, eats it – whatever it is – and then grants the summoner a request."

Bobby sighed. "We ain't got nothing like that around here," he said. "Everything important to us is either too good to let go of, or else gone."

"Anu's deal is with the McLaughlins, though. Couldn't we get something important of theirs to present to him? He'd probably show up at the court for that, I mean, he has to eat three more of them anyway, right?"

"I think you're gettin' good at this, Sam."

He smiled at her.

"All right, so we show up at this festival or whatever, build an altar, phone E. T. and slip him the mickey. Oh, and we also have to find something near and dear to McLaughlin hearts to hide it in."

"That about sums it up."

"In one day."

"Never said it would be easy."

"And when do we pay the bill for all your services here? What about your curse?"

She shrugged. "First things first."

Dean smiled darkly. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

Sam touched her hand. "The evergreen, did you get it?"

"Mmm," she said, swallowing her beer. "Sure did. That's why the banshee was on me so hard last night. It's at the house."

"Let's go get it."

"Sounds good to me-"

"Fabulous," Dean griped. "A morning date with the wiccan witch of a midsummer night's dream. But I guess it would be mid_winter_ in your case, right Sammy?"

Sam stood, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. "Yeah, Dean."

"You're not going anywhere alone with her, man. Not outside your dreams, anyway."

"You to head back to what's left of the house," Bobby said. "Dean and me'll head over to the MacGregor's for God's little Christmas gift. Their house is loaded with old family stuff, I hear."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said.

"Whoa, now hold on a m…"

But Bobby gave him a look that ended his sentence for him, and he settled back into his chair, feeling defeated.

Sam offered Merida a jacket, but she shook her head. "Perks of being a conduit," she said. "Haven't been cold since 1983."

"1983?" Sam said. "But that would make you-"

"Time's a wastin, Winchester," she said. "One day, remember?"

Bobby tossed them the keys to his truck. Sam missed them, but Merida caught them before they hit the floor and dangled them in front of Sam's face.

"Little slow there for a hunter."

"I was caught off guard!"

"As hunters often are."

"This doesn't count."

They kept talking as they disappeared out the door, and Dean turned to Bobby, pissed.

"What the hell was that, Bobby? I'm not a friggin child you can put on time out-"

"Cut the crap, Dean. If you're serious about Psychic Barbie being evil, you got a reason. Spit it out."

Dean looked uncomfortable and got up from the table, headed over to his side of the bed.

"Let's just go, okay?"

Bobby nodded. "Okay. And on the way over, you can tell me all about the Merida-shaped bug up your ass."

* * *

**After this chapter, there'll likely be one or two more and an epilogue. Sorry for the long, long wait! I claim the thesis excuse! **


	10. Pike Creek

_**Chapter 9: Dean and Bobby kill the banshee and bring Merida to the hotel. Sam and Merida head back to her house to get the evergreen while Bobby and Dean search the MacGregors' home for a tribute item.**_

* * *

The house looked fine from the outside, and Sam wondered what Merida's trepidation had been about; it was like she'd been expecting a bombed-out bunker in place of a three and two.

"I can see why you were worried the feds would get involved," he said, smirking. "It really looks like Al Qaeda did a number on the place."

"Ha, ha." She strutted in front of him, beating him to the door. Sam closed the distance between them, feeling a little weirded out about checking out her ass in Dean's jeans. "You should have been here this morning. At least two of the neighbors saw an old man, a male model, and a naked woman covered in tar running to an antique Chevy before a sonic boom went off in the garage. Let's get the evergreen and the medallion and get out of here."

_The medallion. _He'd almost forgotten it.

"Did you hide them in the flour?"

She opened the door. "I don't cook."

He followed her in, peering around. The living room was small, dingy and devoid of furniture; it reminded Sam of an abandoned guest house he and Dean had once squatted in on a hunt.

"Minimalism. I like it."

She grinned over her shoulder at him as she turned down a narrow hallway. "I'm a simple girl."

He chuckled. "Right."

She went into a small bathroom and began rifling through the open drawers. Sam leaned against the doorframe, surveying the small space. There was debris everywhere; it looked like a tornado had whipped through a drug store and dropped the toiletries aisle in the bathroom.

"This must be where the battle went down, huh?"

"Not exactly." She bent down further to get into one of the lower level drawers. "I'm not one for keeping house, is all."

"Wait, you _live_ here?"

"Yep."

"How long?"

"Eh, a few months."

"But what about your mom? I mean, I got the impression she lived with you."

"She does. In a manner of speaking."

Even though he didn't reply, she seemed to sense his suspicion. She sighed and stood up, leaning against the counter.

"She's dead, all right?"

Sam blinked, shaking his head. "But you said, when we met-"

"Hello, Confessor, remember?" She shook her head and opened the cabinet door beneath the sink, squatting and digging through the pile of…well, bathroom stuff.

He knelt behind her, his back against the door. "She's a ghost?" he said softly.

"Bingo," she mumbled, picking over some of the items.

"So all that stuff she knows about the townspeople…she overheard them when they were alone."

"Spirits come in handy for eavesdropping," she said, chuckling. "She talks to some of the more…difficult spirits, too. Sometimes they don't trust me right off the bat, and they're a lot more cooperative if she can vouch for me, you know?"

"Sounds like you two make quite a team."

"Yeah." She had stopped moving things around. "For now, anyway."

"How did she-"

"You know what, Sam, I don't want to talk about this, okay?" she said abruptly, standing and stepping over him into the hall. "C'mon. The goodies are in the back bedroom."

"But-"

But she had already disappeared around the bend in the hallway and vanished from sight.

* * *

"Her face changed? What, like a mask or something?"

"No, not like a mask, Bobby. I'm talking full-on _Emily Rose_ morphing, okay?"

Dean punched the gas, pushing past seventy. They were on the highway on the way to the MacGregors', and the morning was clear as a bell and cold as balls. Dean wished they had taken the time to go shopping for real clothes before high-tailing it up here; the t-shirts and coats just weren't getting the job done. _We're only hunting ghosts near the beach from now on, _he thought. _Might as well live it up before I get dragged to the friggin' basement. _

"We thinkin' witch? Demon?"

Dean sighed. "I don't know. It's probably got something to do with this Confessor stuff, but I don't know why she'd be showing off to me."

"Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless she ain't showin' off anything."

"What the hell's up with her face, then?"

"Might just be you."

"You sayin' I'm going nuts, or something?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that you just made a deal with the boys in the basement to bring a demon-touched psychic relative back from the dead. It's an unorthodox situation, is all I'm sayin'."

Dean didn't have a snappy reply, so he said nothing and concentrated on driving.

It turned out the MacGregors had a parking lot on the other side of the main gates – _Fucking ridiculous_, Dean thought – and after they'd parked the Impala, they trudged up the walk toward the door. Dean rang the bell seven times, and when they got no answer, he whipped out his lock picking kit and got to work.

When the door was finally opened, they went inside, guns drawn.

"Mrs. MacGregor?" Dean called, moving slowly down the central hallway. "You home? It's me, Agent…Winters? We had scotch?"

Dean frowned at Bobby's reproachful look.

"Ian? Anyone home?"

"Think they went out for pizza?"

"Not the type, trust me."

They cleared the first floor, then the second, meeting up again in the foyer.

"Think they got spooked and left?" Bobby leaned against a column, setting his gun on an end table.

"That, or they're dead. Somehow."

"Maybe our Almighty of the week had scrapped together a few more banshees."

Dean groaned. "Already?"

"Don't see why he would wait." Bobby shrugged. "He'll need 'em for tonight, anyway. Even if they can't use our friend Merida to claw up their faces, they can still kill 'em the old fashioned way."

"Yeah, right." Dean clicked his teeth. "Better get back to business then, huh? What the hell do they have around here that's meaningful? I mean, how can we tell?"

"We can start with the safes. Place like this is bound to have 'em. Anything in there that ain't worth a fortune's probably got sentimental value."

* * *

The evergreen was a completely unremarkable bunch of green leaves. If Sam hadn't known better, he would have called it parsley. He picked it up, twirling it between his fingers.

"So this is it."

"Not so spectacular to the eye, I know, but it's the real deal." She was sitting across the small wooden table from him. She'd changed out of Dean's shirt and into a tight fitting black turtle neck; silver string earrings hung from her ears. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that highlighted the contours of her face, and Sam was having trouble concentrating on the rabbit food in his hand. She seemed to notice him staring and smiled gently, picking up the medallion.

"And then there's this," she said.

Sam deflated in more ways than one. "I know."

"I can get the contract, Sam. I have a way."

"Yeah, you told me-"

"No, I mean, _I have a way. _I know who has it, and who can get it for me. All I need is for you to say yes."

"And what's the cost?" he snapped. "Your soul? Mine?"

"No souls. Just a favor."

"_What _favor?"

"Don't worry about that. It's no big deal-"

"It's _always_ a big deal!"

"Sam-"

"Tell me."

She rolled her eyes. "It's nothing. Really. I just have to go to Delaware. Pike Creek, to be exact."

"Why? What do they want you to do? Kill someone?"

She scoffed. "I wouldn't do that, Sam. I deal with the ghosts of people who've been murdered all the time. I know what it does."

"Then _what_?"

"This guy, Nick Freeman. He needs to meet a woman, Sarah, and they need to have a kid."

"You expect to believe that the demons are willing to let Dean out of his deal so Harry can meet Sally?"

"No, it's more than that. It's fate, destiny, ka…you get it. The two of them _will _get together, Sam. One way or another. This is just our chance to benefit from it."

"Demons exist to screw people, Merida. Do you think for a second this one isn't screwing you?"

"I'm sure she is, Sam. But we're in screwed up situations, aren't we? Your brother made a deal with the devil to save you. We'll need another deal to get him out of his. That's just all there is to it."

"But-"

"This is a rare opportunity. Demons of this caliber, with these kinds of connections…they almost never make deals without souls in the mix. You don't have to do this, okay? You don't. As long as you understand that there is no other way to save Dean. None."

"Forget it." Sam shook his head. "It's a bad idea."

She lifted an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "Fine. No contract; don't save your brother. But I'm doing it anyway."

"What? You-"

"-have to break my curse somehow, don't I? I can't walk around for the rest of eternity getting randomly possessed by every ghost with a grudge."

"Who is this "Nick?" Do you even know?"

"I'll find out."

"Merida-"

"What does it matter, Sam? It's _fate,_ do you understand? This will happen, no matter what I decide to do. I'm just trying to take my breaks where I can get them. And if that means making sure two lovebirds cross paths at the park one day, then that's what I'll do."

She got up from the table and took the medallion with her, setting it on a wall shelf. She grabbed her jacket from the bed and slipped it on, avoiding Sam's gaze.

"Let's go," she said. "We have to meet Bobby and your brother and plan for tonight."

* * *

The motel room was empty when Sam and Merida got back; Dean and Bobby were still out. After a tense and silent ride over, Merida walked ahead of him into the room, tossing the keys onto the table and strolling over to Dean's bed. She sat on the side by the nightstand, elbows on her knees; the posture reminded him so much of Dean that he nearly did a double take.

He set his pack down on a kitchen chair and made his way over to her side of the room, sitting across from her on Bobby's bed.

"I…"

Her gaze rose to meet his, and her unblinking stare made it even more difficult to find the right thing to say.

"I just don't want to do the wrong thing," he said slowly, picking at his nail beds. "Dean…he's always come through for me, you know? Ever since I can remember. Even when I was a total dick to him, he'd never let anything happen to me." He chuckled. "If we ever get old, I gotta make sure he dies before me, or I won't get seven minutes in heaven before he brings me back."

Merida didn't reply. She just held him there in her piercing gaze, and he felt like someone could see the real him for the first time since Jessica had died.

"The point is, he's constantly sacrificing things for me, and I just…I didn't want to be a hunter, Merida. I thought I had quit all this, you know? And then my girlfriend died, and I got dragged back into it, and even though I'd dipped out on him and left him with our dad all alone, he took me back without thinking twice. Like I hadn't even done anything…"

Merida folded a lock of hair behind her ear, looking exceptionally beautiful in the cheap light of the motel lamp.

"It's not that I don't want to be here, or that I wanna leave Dean to do all this stuff alone. I would never do that. And I know I can't quit now even if I want to, with all this stuff happening. But there's this part of me. It's a really small part, but…there's this part of me that hates him for dragging me into this, for making me feel like…like I have to stay here with him because he keeps saving my ass and I owe him. And I know I _do _owe him, and I love him, but I just feel like I can't get away from this no matter how hard I try. No matter what I do, Dean and monsters, they're always there, dragging me back." He shook his head and rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. "And he's so selfless, he's such a saint, that I feel like the biggest asshole in the world for saying this stuff to you right now."

Merida stood and closed the short distance between them, standing between Sam's legs and taking his head into her hands. She pressed her forehead to his.

"You're not an asshole, Sam," she said softly. "Us freaks, we all go through it. And other people, they never really understand why we do what we do."

"They don't," he muttered. Her lips were less than an inch from his.

"We've all got a part to play in life, and ours road maybe isn't so easy. But it's us, people like you and me, who make the difference. All that stuff you read about in history books – all the big stuff – that stuff's not done by saints. It's a rough road, but we walk it, and smooth it for the people who come behind us. One day, the world will know your names."

She paused and ran her fingers absently through his hair.

"So remember the people who'll come after you, Sam. The ones who'll read about you and say, 'Sam and Dean Winchester did it, and so can we.'"

She kissed him, softly and not entirely sweetly. He grinned.

"Crouching Blonde, Hidden Barack?"

He felt the vibration in both their chests when she laughed. His hands slipped under her shirt and roamed her back, pressing their bodies together.

Their lips met again, and they didn't separate for a long, long time.

* * *

Dean pulled into the lot of the motel at dusk, cursing when the front end scraped the concrete block at the head of the parking space.

"Watch it, boy!"

Dean cut his eyes at Bobby and shifted into reverse. The car backed off the concrete block, bouncing them in their seats. He killed the engine and rested his head against the seat.

"I have never," he said, "dug through so much useless crap in my life."

"Least we found the tribute."

"Yeah, after eight hours!"

Bobby held up the urn with the ashes of some loved one named Jerica, fingering the engravings on the sides. Each of the MacGregor children had carved their initials into the pewter, along with two crudely drawn hearts.

"It's _good_ tribute. Should kill Anu dead."

"It had damn well better."

They got out, and Dean swore again as the wind chill hit him. He jogged to the motel door and unlocked it, sighing with relief once he had stepped inside. _We are never hunting north of the Mason-Dixon during the winter again. _

Bobby locked the door behind them, and had opened his mouth to speak when Sam and Merida emerged from the bathroom in towels, laughing.

Dean leaned against the table on one hand, smiling falsely.

"So, you two up for air?"

Merida pressed her lips together and crossed the room, picking up a small bag and heading back into the bathroom.

"Yeah…"

Dean nodded. "So, while we've been digging through Scrooge McDuck's attic all day, looking for a way to hide a roofie from God, you've been here, what? Playing hide the salami? Did you two even get the evergreen, or have you been too busy-"

"We got it," Sam said pointedly, ignoring Dean's expression as he picked up their underwear off the floor. "It's right by the bed."

Dean strode over and picked it up, examining it.

"You're welcome."

Dean slipped the evergreen bunches into the satchel on the kitchen table, muttering under his breath. Bobby tossed Sam a pair of sweatpants from the bag by the bed, chuckling.

Sam caught them and slipped them on under his towel. "So you got the 'special something?'"

"Even better," Bobby said, pulling open the fridge. "We got ourselves a real live human tribute."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Well, maybe 'live' isn't the right word," he added, "but it's a person. Someone named Jerica Lange, cremated."

"How do we know they really loved her? I mean, she could be some random great aunt that bit it."

"Because," Dean said, "they kids carved their John Hancocks on the urn, and trust me, that wasn't easy. You don't go through all that trouble for nothing."

"Okay, then. Good."

There was an awkward silence, during which Dean glared and Sam and Sam stole glances at the bathroom door. Bobby just shook his head and took a few swigs.

"Well, I think I'm gonna book myself another room," Bobby said. "It's getting kind of crowded in here."

"Yeah," Sam said too quickly. "I mean, yeah, you'd probably be more comfortable that way, I think," he added as Bobby left the room.

Sam looked sheepishly at Dean.

"Oh, for god's sake," he said, heading over to the bed. He picked up his bag and stuffed his clothes down into it, taking care not to touch the bed or any of Sam or Merida's clothes. He huffed his way over to the door. "You owe me. The next time I wanna-"

Sam cleared his throat, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. "A little respect, man."

Dean gave him a blank look.

"Meet here in the morning to plan," Sam said. "Nine sound okay?"

Dean flipped him off before pulling the door closed and following Bobby to the office.

Merida trotted out of the bathroom as soon as she heard him leave, standing behind Sam and hugging him around the waist.

"You sure you wanna save him?" she spoke into his back.

"No question," he said, smiling. "Just wish it didn't involve demons."

"I know. But there's no other choice."

He sighed. "Yeah."

She released him and moved around until they were facing each other. She wore the black turtle neck and a scarf along with a pair of her own pants. Her coat lay across the table.

"You don't think he was suspicious, about you sending him off like that?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope. He's always trying to get me laid. Probably secretly happy about it, even if he's not such a big fan of you."

"Let's hope when all this is done, he'll change his mind about that." She stood on tip toe and kissed him softly. "I'm off to Pike Creek. Wish me luck."

"Something tells me you'll do fine without it."

She grinned. "Wish me luck anyway, Winchester."

"You sure? I mean, look what happened to the McLaughlins. Luck's not always such a good thing."

"A fair point," she conceded. She stepped away from him, making a big show of sauntering over to the table. She slipped her coat on and leaned against one of the chairs.

"See you in the morning, babe."

Sam couldn't help but be pleased at the pet name. "You'd better."

She held up her hand and waved at him, one finger at a time, then vanished with a barely perceptible shimmer.

Sam just stood there, watching the spot where she had stood, thinking. When he was too tired to remain upright, he went to bed.


	11. Without Further Anu

The whole thing reminded Dean of a Renaissance Fair he and Sam had stopped to visit on a hunt with their father.

There were people milling around as far as two blocks away from the McLaughlins' enormous gate, dressed in wildly anachronistic clothing and drunk of their asses. Five or six teenaged girls dodged the Impala as it rolled slowly past. He didn't want to call attention to the car; the FBI was still in town looking for the psychotic plastic surgeon and the Finch was probably on the lookout for him, considering he'd completely disappeared after the first survey of the crime scene. _Probably thinks we're the killers, _Dean mused.

He tried not to shake his head in disbelief as he followed the line of cars into another secret parking lot past the front drive. What, did all these people host drive-ins on Saturday nights?

Merida and Sam were in the back seat, sitting too close together for his liking. He still didn't trust Merida – not by a long shot – but he had to admit that he was starting to like her, a little bit. Not for herself, exactly, but because of the effect she had on Sam. If he was going to hell in a year, Dean could imagine far worse people for the kid to end up with. _Be a hell of an asset when it comes to hunting, too_.

"So everyone clear on the plan?" Sam leaned forward as Dean shifted the car into park. "Remember your places. We meet up between the giant oak trees behind the house. The fair isn't extending that far onto the property, so we should get some privacy."

Dean straightened his jacket. "You got the blood, Bobby?"

He nodded and shoved the vial into Dean's jacket pocket. "Spell, too. Anu should show up in a hurry; I don't think this guy's been summoned in a while."

"Good," Merida said. "The faster we get this done, the better."

Dean glanced into the rearview mirror. "Where's the fire, Miss Sweet Corn?"

She and Sam exchanged surreptitious looks, and Dean was about to inquire further when Bobby pulled a small box out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"What's this?"

"Ear plugs," Bobby said, handing another box to Sam, who took it. "In case we come across any screamers."

"Will these even work? I mean, I don't think BOSE headphones were made to lock out banshee screams."

Bobby glared over the headrest at Sam. "Take it or leave it, boy."

"All righty then," Merida chirped, cutting Dean off before he could open his mouth.

* * *

They split up at the gate. Dean gave Merida and Sam a once-over, handing them the bag of supplies for the altar.

"Don't spill the ashes, you two. We don't have any to spare."

Merida rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the tips, boss. I think I can handle setting up the landing pad. You two just make sure the other rituals aren't too realistic. If someone else's honor offering is more compelling than the ashes, Anu could show up anywhere and surprise us. We probably wouldn't be able to save the others in time, either."

Dean nodded without comment.

Bobby took a deep breath. "Are y'all waiting for a group cheer? Let's get a move on!"

Sam and Merida started toward the rear of the property, disappearing into the crowd.

Dean looked around the entrance to the fair, scanning the faces of people dressed in bundled and roughhewn shirts and dresses, pushing small children in strollers and carrying plates of food. Another mob of teenage girls bounced past, eating some kind of meat on a kebab; vendors stood at booths with signs that announced the sale of _Ye Olde_ this or that, shouting and singing at passers-by. He looked down at his button-down and leather jacket, wishing they'd taken the time to get costumes; if the FBI or the Finch were around, they'd be made in no time. _Too late now. _

He slipped his hands into his pockets. "So what's first on the list?"

"Well, in the old days there was a sacrifice of a bull, but I don't think they'll get that deep into things at this shindig. Traditionally, they'd take some corn up to high ground and bury it for the gods, eat some bilberries and some of the new harvest, that kind of thing."

"None of that sounds like it would draw Anu away from our true-blue human sacrifice."

"It wouldn't, but the dancing and the ritual play might."

Dean shook his head. "Do I want to know?"

Bobby shrugged. "It's nothing hinky, just a what-happened-to-the-gods kind of thing, like the ancient Egyptians used to do. It doesn't involve a sacrifice, but one guy gets to play Anu, and at the end of the play he gets to return to power. Way back when, he would have been treated as a human manifestation of a harvest god. Wasn't true of course, but under the circumstances…"

"Yeah, you don't have to tell me." Dean shivered, dreading the temperature drop that would accompany the coming sunset. "Do we know who's playing Anu in this High School Musical?"

"Nope. But historically it was someone born into a good family, wealthy, young, male…"

Dean thought for a moment, then swore.

"C'mon."

"C'mon where?"

"We gotta find the Vampire Lestat."

"Who?"

But Dean was already twenty yards a ahead of him; Bobby frowned and hurried after.

* * *

Merida knelt in the small clearing, arranging the stones in a circle; after she added some extra ones, the final picture looked to Sam like a clock with four extra hands.

He dug in the bag for the canister of ashes and the small piece of evergreen, handing them to Merida when she reached for them.

"So…do we just hand him the urn?"

Merida tossed the evergreen unceremoniously into the canister and shook it until the leaves were completely concealed by the ashes. "Pretty much. Why?"

He shrugged. "I dunno, I just pictured something more dramatic, I guess. I thought a mortar and pestle would be involved."

She grinned, the expression looking somewhat sinister in the fading light. "Nope. We summon him, we present him with the tribute, he eats it, and then…well, he eats it."

She balanced the urn on the stone in the center of the circle, then backed out of it until she stood beside Sam. The studied her handiwork together, their hands drifting until they were intertwined.

"When this is done," she said softly, "you and Dean head back to the motel."

"What about you?"

"I have to go meet someone."

"Who?"

"You know who."

There was moment of silence as Sam collected his thoughts. "Merida…"

"We – well, I – already did what she asked. Nick and Sarah have met and are probably playing hide and seek in her bedroom right now, so the kid's practically a given. No muss, no fuss."

He snorted.

"And _tonight_," she said pointedly, "I meet her, she gives me the contract, we burn it, and that's all she wrote."

"What if something goes wrong? I can't help you if you won't tell me where you're going – "

She shook her head, then rested it against his arm. "No can do. This is a covert operation, Winchester; she's risking a lot by doing this for me."

"So I'm just supposed to wait while you go meet some demon face to face?"

"Not 'supposed to'," she said firmly. "You will. She's not just getting this contract, Sam, she's breaking my curse. Don't screw this up."

"She's doing all that in exchange for you setting up this Nick guy? Why couldn't she do that herself?"

"There are rules, she says. It's all written down somewhere."

"This guy must be pretty important."

"Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, I don't ask these questions. Not our problem."

But Sam was beginning to think it was very much their problem. They were screwing with destiny again, just like Dean had done for him when he'd made his hell-conceived deal. Sam could practically feel the wheels of the universe turning in a direction he dreaded.

"I don't like where this is going."

"It's going there whether you like or not, Sam."

"I don't-"

But he was cut off by a sudden and piercing scream, all too familiar in its overwhelmingness.

* * *

Ian MacGregor strutted across the stage in what looked like a Grandmother Willow costume, talking in a booming voice and gesticulating broadly at the audience, who cheered and clapped. Dean fought his way through the crowd to the center of the lawn where the stage stood on a raised platform. Bobby was right on his heels, knocking tweens aside in his haste to keep up.

"That's him, Bobby!"

"Who?"

"Ian MacGregor," Dean said, turning his head so that his words would reach Bobby. "He's a McLaughlin by blood! Anu's gonna use him to-"

Dean's head split open in a terribly familiar way, and he was knocked to the ground with the force of the pain. The entire audience seemed to scream in unison, and a third of them started to flee, tripping over props and each other in a blind attempt to escape the sound.

Dean clasped his hands tightly over his ears and groaned, kicking himself. Why hadn't he remembered to-

But his hands were being torn away from his head, and before he could protest, soft pieces of foam were being jammed into his ears. The noise drastically decreased in volume.

Bobby gradually came into focus; he was sitting on his knees in front of Dean and people were running all about them, barely avoiding the two men crouched on the ground. Bobby was mouthing something and pulling Dean to his feet.

"WHAT?"

Bobby rolled his eyes and yanked Dean by the arm, dragging him toward the back of the property. Dean caught on and they started running, the vial of the blood of the first victim bouncing in Dean's pocket.

* * *

Merida winced and sank to the ground, holding her hands up like she could physically stave off the sound. On instinct, he shoved the earplugs Bobby had given him into his ears; the sound was still loud, but it was dulled enough that he wasn't incapacitated. When he looked down at Merida again, a soft golden light was emitting from her hands, and her face was no longer contorted in pain.

_It's called magic, Winchester. Perhaps you're familiar with the concept._

_Holy shit, _he thought. _I can hear you right now. What are you, a Meyerpire?_

She laughed inside his head. _Not so much. Why do you keep forgetting what I am?_

_I'm not used to dealing with psychics. Sue me for being shocked when you start yammering into my brain._

_And to think, you two were gonna gank me. _An image of Merida sprawled on a neighborhood street with a stake in her chest appeared in Sam's mind.

_This is so weird, _he thought.

_I hope we-_

Bobby came barreling into the clearing and Dean was right behind him, waving his arms in the air.

"LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!"

Merida rose carefully to her feet so as not to disturb the shield she'd constructed; Dean trudged roughly past her, sprinkling the blood unceremoniously over the urn with the ashes.

"BOBBY! NOW!"

Bobby began speaking words Sam couldn't hear. He stood in front of the circle beside Dean, his hands raised in the air as if he was cheering at a sporting event.

The banshee's screams came to an abrupt and jarring halt. Then there was silence.

The four of them looked anxiously at one another, and Bobby was about to recite the incantation again when a bright light exploded in front of them. They cried out and held their hands up to their faces to block it out.

After a moment, the light dimmed, and a tall man stood before them on the other side of the circle. He was dressed in a roughhewn toga that hung to his knees, and thick black hair dusted his shoulders. He stared at them, wide-eyed.

Sam and Merida crept forward until they were at the edge of the circle beside Dean and Bobby.

"What should we say?" Dean whispered.

"I didn't bring any conversation points, Dean!" Sam muttered back. "Maybe-"

Anu's confusion soon gave way to rage, and he released a deep and loud bellow. They stumbled back with the force of it.

_Guess we know why he as such a fondness for banshees, _Merida thought at Sam.

"We brought you a little gift," Bobby ventured, pointing at the urn.

Anu glanced down at the urn in disgust, when spat something at them in a language they didn't recognize.

"Shit," Dean said. "He doesn't speak English?"

"Of course not," Merida hissed. "He's an ancient Irish harvest god!"

"Well, if you got anything else up your sleeve, princess, now's the time to share it with the class!" Bobby growled.

Merida glared at Dean, then took a tentative step forward, holding out her hands. She began to speak very quickly and with a strange rhythm. It was vaguely familiar to Sam, and after a few moments he remembered where he'd heard it from.

_In front of Jennifer Tierney's house, _he thought. _When she put that mark on me. This is the language she spoke. _

_Very good, Sam, _Merida thought without breaking her sing-song speech to Anu. _Have a cookie. _

Sam's expression prompted a swat on the arm from his brother. "What the hell is _this_, man?" he said, gesturing at Merida. "Since when does she speak ancient Gaelic?"

"Who cares?" Bobby said.

Dean didn't say anything more, but he glared surreptitiously at Merida's back as she spoke.

She stopped a moment after that, and Anu stepped into the circle. His movements were crude and jerky, as though he were an action figure being moved by an unseen hand. He bent slowly forward and picked up the urn, holding it above his head. Hatred and rage were etched into every line of his face, and his eyes bored into Merida's. He spoke a few words – harsh and ugly ones – and then he opened his mouth.

What looked like black ink came pouring out like paint and splattered into the rocks beneath his feet. He turned his head upward and emptied the urn into his mouth.

The four of them stepped back, expecting an explosion of some kind, but nothing of the sort happened. Anu simply began to choke, clawing at his throat, before collapsing into a heap on the ground. He twitched a few more times before going completely still.

An uneasy silence followed.

"Welp," Dean said, shrugging, "should we bury him?"

Merida squatted and cocked her head at the god's body, then shook her head.

"I don't think we'll have to," she said. "He's…melting."

Sam, Dean, and Bobby knelt beside her to get a better look. Sure enough, the black ink was dripping from his eyes and mouth, as well was the beds of his fingernails.

"Oh." Dean got back to his feet; Bobby and Sam followed. "Guess that's all, folks. Let's hit the road before the alphabet boys catch up with us. The Finch ain't the type to drop a case like this."

They started to walk away, but Merida didn't follow.

"Merida?" Sam took a step in her direction. "You coming?"

"You go ahead," she said. Her voice was toneless. "I'll be along."

Sam ignored her and walked back over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

She shrugged it off. "Nothing."

"What did this thing say to you?"

"Nothing!"

"I-"

"Just go, Sam!"

"I'm not gonna-"

"I have a meeting to get to," she said quietly. "You don't want me to be late. So _go_."

She sounded too final for Sam's liking, and he started to put an arm around her when she vanished from sight.

"Merida!"

"Sam-"

"Merida!"

Dean grabbed him by the bicep. "Look at me."

"Damn it, Dean-"

"_Look_ at me."

Sam stopped fighting and looked Dean's way.

"She'll be back when she's ready, Sam."

"You don't understand-"

"You're wrong," Dean said. "I do understand. I'm cursed, same as she is. She just needs a little time."

"Dean-"

"Trust me," Dean said softly, letting go of Sam's arm. "Let's go home to wait for her. She'll come back once she's got her stuff together."

* * *

But she didn't.

Sam insisted that they stay at the motel for over a week waiting for her, but didn't turn up. Sam had dragged them back to her house, to the coffee shop, even back to the McLaughlins' house, dangerous as it was after the events of the festival, but she was gone. Dean had tried to comfort him, but Sam would have none of it; Dean didn't know where she'd gone, what she'd done for him.

And something had gone terribly wrong. He knew it as soon as she left the clearing, but on the day Dean insisted it was time to hit the road, it was confirmed.

Sam stood over the sink in the bathroom, shaving, when he realized the mark Merida had left on him was gone. He examined his face again and again, but he couldn't find a trace of it anywhere.

Dean picked up on his mood the second he left the bathroom.

"Somethin' happen, Sam?"

"Nothing."

Dean snorted.

"She's dead, Dean."

"How could you know something like that, Sammy? Your psychic link back up, or something?"

"The mark," Sam said, fighting to keep his voice even. "It's gone."

Dean strolled over to him and took him by the chin, turning his face left and right. Sam knocked his arm away and looked down so Dean wouldn't see his eyes welling up.

"So it is." Dean shrugged. "Doesn't mean she's dead, man. Could be the spell just wore off."

Sam shook his head and picked up his pack. "Yeah. Whatever."

Dean leaned against the small table and stared at his brother. "Something you wanna tell me?"

"Like what?"

"Like why you're acting like your whole world's just been crushed."

"I know you're a hit it and quit it guy, Dean, but some of us have feelings."

"Don't go there, Sam. You liked this girl, I can see that, okay? But you didn't like her _that_ much. She was no Jessica. So why do you look like you just found out you have terminal cancer?"

"I just-"

"Don't bullshit me, Sam. Something was going on with you two, and I don't just mean you were breaking headboards. What were you two up to? And why is she dead?"

Sam fiddled with the strap of his pack, tapping his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"Okay, then. Fine. Keep your mouth shut. Let's go."

Sam followed Dean out the motel room door. "Where're we headed, anyway?"

"Indiana," Dean said, opening the Impala door. "Cicero. I need a little R and R."

"What's in Cicero?"

"Quiet, that's what. And Lisa. She's a yoga instructor. I need a break from all this supernatural shit for a while."

It was forty degrees and sunny when they left Platsworth, Minnesota, and for once, Sam didn't do any research on the road. He just gazed out the window, wondering how he'd lost yet another person close to him.

And vowing to do anything to keep from losing another one.

* * *

**Stay tuned for the epilogue! **


	12. Epilogue

Merida walked along Kinney Road, her eyes peeled. The demon liked to sneak up on her – they liked to sneak up on everyone, really – and it unsettled her more than most; she was accustomed to seeing what was coming. Being psychic had its perks, after all.

And its downsides.

She knew Sam was right about working with a demon. She'd been around the block – it seemed like every other lost soul she came across knew someone who got dragged down to hell at one point or another. But Sam didn't understand what this curse was doing to her – she'd spent so long being hijacked by every pissed-off spirit she came across and she was ready for it to be over. She couldn't stand the possessions any longer. They were wearing her to the bone; she had barely survived this encounter with the banshee. The next possession could very well kill her.

She had to do something, demons or no demons.

Their appointment was for midnight, just after the business with the banshee was done. Merida had wanted to meet before, but the demon had insisted on getting together after the god was put down. Merida had wanted to ask questions, but she hadn't wanted to press her luck. The demon was breaking a curse and giving Sam's brother a way out of his deal in exchange for nothing more than a matchmaking endeavor. It was an offer too good to pass up. And she was grateful now that she hadn't asked questions at their last meeting. After what Anu had told her, she was beginning to regret the entire arrangement…

"Beautiful neighborhood, huh?"

Merida nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Yeah," she said, leaning against a fence. "Gorgeous."

"Nick and Sarah will be two peas in a pod here, wouldn't you say? The perfect life."

Merida nodded and looked across the street at their house. The lawn was immaculately kept, and the curtains were drawn, giving the place a modest, almost prudish feel.

"Something's troubling you," the demon said, leaning against the fence beside her.

Merida shook her head. "It's Sam."

The demon's attitude shifted ever so slightly. "What about him?"

"He warned me about doing this, with demons, I mean," Merida said softly. "And I thought he was wrong, you know? But after tonight-"

"What happened tonight?"

The demon's tone had sharpened, and Merida was suddenly very aware that she had few places to run if things turned south. _Better turn on the charm, _she thought.

"Nothing big," Merida assured her. "But Anu, the god, he…"

"What?"

"He told me that I would be sorry for what I was doing. That all would be destroyed because of me."

The demon narrowed her eyes. "Of course he did. You killed him. Sent him to Purgatory. If you were gonna kill me, I'd lay into you, too."

"But I don't think he was talking about-"

The demon cut her off. "Look, Merida, we had a deal. You fulfilled your end – Nick's coupled up. And now it's my turn. I just need to know a few things first."

Merida nodded.

The demon smiled. "Good. Now the Winchester, the damned one, he needs this contract, right? There's no other possible way for him to get out of his deal, correct? They didn't have any other ideas?"

"No," Merida said. "Why? You can still get it, can't you?"

"Of course I can," the demon assured her. "About Sam. You connected with him, is that right? You could speak into his mind? He was open to you?"

"He…"

The demon's eyes narrowed dangerously again. "What?"

Merida began to back slowly away. "What do you want with them?"

The demon rolled her eyes. "Nothing, Merida. I just want to make sure they don't come after me. Self-preservation."

"I don't believe you."

The demon froze, pressing her lips together.

"Don't you want your little curse broken, babe? Or do you like giving every lonely spirit in town a ride?"

Merida stopped moving away.

"Atta girl. Now tell me…was Sam Winchester open to you? _Did he let you in_?"

"Y-Yeah, he did." Her voice was shaking. _Shit, _she thought, wracking her brains frantically. _Shit, shit, shit. _ "There were no problems."

"And did you fuck him?"

That one caught her off guard. "What?"

"You heard me. Were you his type? Did he dig the blonde?"

"We-"

"Of course you did." The demon laughed, her red hair shimmering in the moonlight. "Tell me, do you think he'd like this?" She gestured at her vessel's body.

"I don't...I don't know…" She tried to pull a vanishing trick – fairy magic was powerful stuff, and she'd used it to get out of countless jams before – but she remained in place. _Fuck. _

"Oh, don't bother with that, darling," the demon teased. "You're not going anywhere."

"But…but we had a deal, Ruby!"

The demon shook her head. "No…deals involve souls. No soul, no deal."

"But you-"

"It's not my fault you don't know the rules, sweet cheeks."

"But the contract-"

"Will remain right where it is. Safe and sound between Lilith's tits."

"Lilith?"

"You'll never get to meet her. She's a blonde, too! I think you'd get along famously."

"What about my curse?"

"Oh…" Ruby strutted over to where Merida stood and reached out to stroke her cheek. "Don't worry about that. No spirits will ever ride you again."

"But-"

But Merida's words were cut off as an ancient knife was plunged into her abdomen. Blood erupted from her mouth and she dropped to her knees. Ruby yanked the blade from her flesh, wiping it on her jeans.

"It's a little fancy for the occasion, I know," she said, examining the inscriptions on the blade, "but it takes care of any little tricks you might have up your sleeve." She bounced the knife in her hand. "This puppy cuts past all the crap."

Ruby watched patiently as Merida twitched and coughed on the pavement. It was almost half an hour before she died, but Ruby had the time; Sam would need a little time to recover from the loss of his little girlfriend here.

As Merida finally went still, Ruby strode away, headed back in the direction she'd come. She'd stopped at a gas station on her way to this little tête-à-tête, and the prettiest little blonde cashier had asked if Ruby was staying long in town.

Apparently, she was seeking a long-term roommate.

* * *

_Hope everyone enjoyed the tale! R & R!_


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